


Unexpected

by GhostTari



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Attempted Sexual Assault, M/M, Omega John, Omega Verse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-17 22:49:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 55,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4684211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostTari/pseuds/GhostTari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes stop at Watson Hall could not have gone more wrong, but now with the French possibly invading any day, a broken arm might be the least of his worries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Nymeria578 for letting me bounce this story around.

Harry had all the luck.  


John stomped through the underbrush of the small forest near his home, frustration evident in every line of his body. Once again, the genetic lottery had thrown his dreams to the dirt and crushed them.  


Harry had sworn him to secrecy this morning before she’d told him of her plans to run off and join the army. Her alpha face flushed with pride, she failed to notice the pain that painted his. His dearest childhood dream, now being realized by his sister, had been dashed at the tender age of 14 as his body rebelled and forced him into the first heat of a new omega.  


Younger by 4 years, Harry likely didn’t remember John dashing from room to room in their manor, swinging his wooden sword at invisible foes. John had listened peripherally as Harry railed against Napoleon and ‘those damned frogs’, his mind drawn back to his former dreams of glory as he had listened to his grandfather’s stories of fighting the colonials.  


Perhaps he should go tell Greg. Their cousin in name only, the three of them had grown up as siblings after Greg’s parents died of influenza during his early childhood. Father had been devastated at the death of his only sister so soon after the loss of his mate. Harry looked up to Greg and perhaps his methodical analysis would help temper Harry’s enthusiasm. However, he was rarely at Watson Hall anymore, preferring to spend his days and evenings paying court on Miss Sally Donovan. It would be an excellent match, a Watson Alpha wedding the Omega daughter of a neighboring squire. Father had expressed his curiosity as to why no announcement had been made, but Greg would not be hurried. His choice in a mate would be as deliberate and well thought out a decision as all other decisions he made were.  


Why couldn’t Harry inherit their cousin’s good sense? Why did she have to be as impulsive as John? Why did she have to have the ability to act on such impulsiveness?  


He picked up a stick as he walked and vented his spleen on a nearby tree, letting out a yell as his anger spent. As the anger dissipated, it left a listless ache and he drifted back toward the manor, already dreading seeing Harry again at dinner.  


A rattle from the road pushed him from his thoughts and a small smile crossed his lips as he spied a peddler’s wagon through the trees. It was rare for peddlers to choose to come this far from the main road. Watson Hall estate was set back nearly a mile from the main road and few went out of their way to visit on the chance of a sale.  


The wagon rolled to a stop and a tall man jumped to the ground.  


“Good morning!” He called before stooping to push a rock under the front wheel. John’s eyes widened as the man, no, alpha straightened again. This was not the usual peddler type to grace their small town. Neither wizened nor gnarled, he stood tall, his black curls shining in the bright sun.  


“Tis a fine day for such a pleasant sight. Might I show you something that could interest you?” The alpha’s voice was smooth and rich. His verdigris eyes pinned John to the spot. John blinked slowly as he took in the alpha’s appearance. The simple shirt, worn trousers, and scuffed boots all wore signs of his peddling life.  


“Or might I interest such a fine omega in something else?” He smirked.  


John gasped, cheeks bursting into flame at the innuendo.  


He scowled. “No. Thank you.”  


“Are you saying there is nothing here to interest you? Nothing at all?”  


“No.” He answered shortly. Meeting the peddler’s eyes again, it was obvious that the man was enjoying this. John’s gaze sparked. He was a respectable omega. The first born son of an honorable alpha. And while he had shown a decided lack of manners in his staring, that was no excuse for the man to be rude.  


“Thank you, but no.”  


The peddler smiled, lines creasing the corners of his eyes. “Are you certain?” John’s cool answer not tempering him in the slightest. “How can you be so certain, kind sir, when you’ve barely glanced at my wares?” There was a pause as his grin widened. “It would be my pleasure to show you anything you like.”  


John was confounded by this presumptuous man. While he said nothing outwardly wrong, the way he spoke and the twinkle in his eye made plain his meaning. Yet, his gaze did not slither along John’s spine in the way Sebastian Moran’s did each time they met. John shuddered as he pushed that thought away.  


“You are wasting your time in trying to sell something to me today,” he said as he stepped down onto the road. “I have no- Oh! Mon Dieu!” He gasped as he realized the drop to the road was greater than he’d anticipated.  


The peddler put out his hands when he wobbled but withdrew them again when John steadied himself.  


“Take care, sir.”  


“I…” John trailed off as his gaze rose over the fine line of the peddler’s high cheekbones. Lord, but he was tall. Taller than he’d realized from the berm next to the road. Certainly taller than his father and taller even than Sir Albert Moran, Sebastian’s father.  


He shook away thoughts of the Moran family again. The only good thing about learning of Harry’s plans was that it had taken his mind off of Sir Albert’s plans to match his son with John. Sir Albert had recently called on Father in order to present his arguments, yet again, for how this engagement would benefit both families. Father had yet to make a decision and John was content to let it lie as long as possible.  


“Sir?”  


John looked at the peddler again. He was still smiling. The man must think him completely daft, as he had yet to utter a sensible word in his hearing.  


Suddenly all pleasure at seeing the peddler’s wagon vanished. He wanted to be alone to figure out a way to keep Harry from getting herself killed and to halt his father from listening to Sir Albert.  


“I’m sorry, sir.” He said quietly. “I have no interest in purchasing anything today.”  


“As you wish, but will you allow me to practice on you?”  


“Practice?”  


“Yes, would you allow me to practice?”  


“Practice what?”  


“French.”  


“You want me to help you with French?”  


“Yes. I believe I heard you speak it moments ago. Did I not?”  


“You did. I was taught several languages by my tutors, but it is hardly wise to use such language freely when our shores could be invaded at any moment.”  


“On the contrary, sir.” The peddler smiled. Did he ever stop? “Think how expedient it would be to confront your enemies with oaths in their own language?”  


John gave him a cold smile. He, Harry, and Greg did, in fact, use French to say what would not be appropriate in English. However, he had no intention of standing on the beach and shouting curses at French soldiers. He’d much rather have a gun.  


“Good day, sir.”  


“So you won’t let me practice on you?”  


“As I said, I do not wish to speak any more French.”  


The peddler bowed, then looked at Watson Hall, perched on the hill. “Perhaps then, I might practice something else with you? I have only recently arrived in the area. Traveling as I have, I’ve learned that what appeals to the people of one parish brings no pleasure to the people of the next. Could you be so kind as to tell me which of my marvelous items might convince your neighbors to part with a few farthings?”  


John snorted. “With such a speech, I can hardly imagine you could need any practice luring customers to your cart.”  


“Ah, you see right through me. Perhaps you are wiser than most, Mister…”  


“John Watson.” He stepped closer to the wagon. What could it hurt to look at the persistent man’s wares? He might find something to take his mind off his troubles.  


“Watson? Like the manor on the hill?”  


John nodded. “Lord Watson is my father.”  


“And he lets a young Omega such as you wander the countryside without a chaperone?”  


John scowled. The man now sounded more like the Moran’s. John was well within hearing range of the men working the fields across the road and he could certainly look after himself. He wasn’t feeble and was smart enough to know not to go out at night.  


Choosing not to answer, he looked into the wagon instead. His eyes widened at the collection of items inside. It was a jumble of small wonders. Books slouched to one side propped up by, wait, was that a skull? A box of dishes sat nestled in the corner, draped with light blue fabric.  


“Has something caught your eye?” The peddler’s voice was smug. No doubt anticipating the chance to make a sale. “You’ve been staring for quite a while.”  


John stiffened and his hands gripped the edge of the wagon. The peddler stood too close, his words brushing the nape of John’s neck. When he reached past him and pushed aside the material in the dish box, John edged away. He faced him, and he hoped his smile was properly polite.  


“What do you think?” The peddler asked, dropping a small tin into his hands. “Might this appeal to the Omega son of Lord Watson?”  


John choked down the impulse to snap at the implication that he cared only for frippery. As he ran his hands over the tin of tea, he remembered the warmth of his Papa cuddled together when John was a child. Papa always smelled of tea. With the war on and the French blockades, tea like this was almost impossible to obtain.  


“Where did you get this?” He asked.  


“I traded for it at a country house further inland.”  


“But it’s never been used.”  


The peddler smiled. “Probably why it cost me so much. There isn’t much there. Enough for just a few cups.” He ran a fingertip along the tin, brushing John’s hand with his much broader finger.  


“You seem to find it pleasing, Mr. Watson. Would you be interested in purchasing it?”  


“No.” He didn’t hesitate.  


“No?”  


“No.” John smiled and he handed it back. “You’ll have to find another to buy it, sir.”  


“My name is Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.” His laugh took on a conspiratorial tone. “If you do not wish to buy the tea, perhaps you could give me the name of another in your household who would?”  


“Neither Father nor my sister would have any use for it. If – “ He bit off the rest as the peddler’s – Mr. Holmes – eyes twinkled again. Once again, he met that gaze without flinching. He need not act like John was revealing some deep dark secret. Anyone in the nearby village would be able to tell him who lived in Watson Hall.  


John expected a retort, but Mr. Holmes only placed the tea in his hands again. When John started to give it back, he put his hand atop it. The cloth warmed with his touch. He should have pulled away, but he couldn’t bear the chance of the tea falling into the dust. At least, that’s what he told himself as he savored the surprising pleasure of that warmth.  


“You must keep it,” Mr. Holmes said.  


“I cannot. Father would never allow it.”  


“Because it is a gift from a stranger?”  


“Yes.” He replied, but it was mostly a lie. Father would have nothing in the house that might possibly have been brought to England by the smugglers who plied the channel. No tea, no brandy, no silk.  


“That is too bad.” Mr. Holmes sighed and leaned his elbow on the top of the wagon. “I had hoped you would take it in trade for a night’s shelter and food for me and my horse.” He patted the brown haunches of his horse. “We’ve traveled many miles today.”  


John hesitated. How easy it would be to agree to the trade. He would not be the first to sleep in the stables. Father always welcomed visitors, whether quality or not, to Watson Hall. He would be especially interested in any news Mr. Holmes might bring. Father waited anxiously for any news that might signal an end to the war. John fingered the cloth. He could not deny that he would like to keep it.  


With regret, he pushed it back into Mr. Holmes hand. “I cannot take something of such value in return for shelter. You are welcome to find a place to sleep in the stables and Cook will find you something to eat.”  


“You are very generous, Mr. Watson, but I would prefer to pay for my food.” He tossed the tea into the wagon as if it were nothing but a box of dirt. “Is there nothing here you might be willing to trade for?”  


“I told you. You are welcome to stay without-“  


“Humor me, Mr. Watson. I may only be a peddler, but my pride could not bear it if I did not pay my way through life.” He smiled.  


John could not help but return the smile. Sherlock Holmes was certainly unlike any peddler he’d ever met before. He was as eager to sell as any who’d come before, yet he spoke like an educated man. He glanced at the many books strewn about the wagon. Perhaps between the books and conversations with his customers he had managed to gain somewhat of an education.  


“Mayhap you would see something here you might like?” Mr. Holmes opened a box in the middle of the wagon bed.  
John glanced at the dishes and combs and dismissed them all. They had more of both than they needed in Watson Hall. As he turned to tell Mr. Holmes he would have to accept their hospitality, a glint near the front caught his eye. Standing on his toes, he reached for it.  


“What have you found, Mr. Watson?”  


“This.” He lifted a small pistol from its walnut case and smiled as he cradled it in his palm. The butt and barrel were engraved with curlicues so fine they resembled the curls on a baby’s head. He noted the perfect balance as he gripped the gleaming thing. Harry’s hands were not much smaller than his, so it should fit her perfectly.  


Mr. Holmes took the pistol from him and returned it to its case. “No, Mr. Watson. I will not trade you that.”  


“Of course not.” John’s face burned. Did Mr. Holmes think he meant to charge so highly for the hospitality that was freely given at Watson Hall? He guessed that the tea was likely worth as much as the pistol, war and taxes being what they were, but he would not impose on his generosity. “If you tell me its price, I would be glad to listen.”  


“No.”  


“No?” John’s eyes grew wide as Mr. Holmes eyes narrowed to slits.  


“This is an Alpha’s pistol, Mr. Watson. It isn’t meet that an Omega should bargain for it.”  


“But it would be the perfect gift for Harry, my younger sister is the Alpha heir-“  


“Then I would gladly negotiate with her.”  


John clenched his fists, tempted to strike at the man. He was impossible as Sebastian.  


“You cannot bargain with her.” He argued. “If we were to buy this for her, it would be as a present for her birthday.”  


“Be that as it may, I will not bargain with you, Mr. Watson.” He pushed the case beneath the seat of the wagon. “Is there something else that I might interest you in buying?”  


“I am interested in the pistol.”  


He smiled and shook his head. “And I told you that I will not bargain with an Omega for an Alpha’s pistol. You should not be handling such things.”  


“Handling a pistol?” John laughed, irritated at the condescending tone. “Mr. Holmes, I’ll have you know that I’ve been riding to the hunt with my family since I was first able to keep my seat.”  


“Mr. Watson, I’ll have you know that the traditions of your family matter not one rap to me.”  


Mr. Holmes kicked the rock away from the wheel and grasped the reins. “As it seems we’re at an impasse here, it seems it would be wise to put an end to the conversation. I trust I might still seek shelter at Watson Hall?”  


“Of course, but – “  


He put a hand on the side of the seat to climb back aboard. “Thank you, Mr. Watson. If you could step back, I would hate for you to chance getting hurt.”  


John knew he should let him go, should let him leave but the thought of that pistol wouldn’t leave him. If Harry was going to get the chance to fight instead of him, she ought to have the best weapons available. Hopefully, that would help her survive.  


“Mr. Holmes?”  


Mr. Holmes paused with one foot on the board of his wagon. “Is there something else you might be interested in, Mr. Watson?”  


“Only the pistol.”  


“Which I will not sell to you.”  


“Will you sell it to my father?”  


He turned to face John, still holding the reins. “Do you think he would be interested in buying it?  


John almost said yes, but stopped. Mr. Holmes, while still smiling, had visibly tensed with his question. He was balanced on the balls of his feet, his hands hung close to his waist as if to pull something from under his waistcoat – another weapon? – and the twinkle was gone from his eyes which had darkened to a storm gray.  


“Father would have to speak from himself.” John cleared his throat to hide his uneasiness. He wished he could take his words back. Too late, Mr. Holmes gaze drilled through him, as if he intended to cut a hole straight through him.  


John took several steps back. The branches of the hedgerow brushed his shirt, bringing him to a stop. He stared at Mr. Holmes. Moments ago he’d been jesting, but now… John shook off the fearful thoughts. He was not trapped against the hedgerow, he was letting his mind run away with him. Mr. Holmes was just the latest in a long line of eccentric peddlers to visit Watson Hall. Sherlock Holmes was perhaps just a bit odder than most.  


Mr. Holmes held out his hand and John stared at it. What on earth could he want?  


“Mr. Watson?” He asked.  


“What?”  


His smile returned along with the twinkle. John could see he was amused again.  


“I would offer you a ride back to Watson Hall,” he said, “If you wish.”  


“Very kind of you.” That hadn’t sounded too trite. Had it?  


“But?”  


“I’m sorry?”  


“I heard a ‘but’ in your answer, Mr. Watson. Very kind of me to offer, but…?”  


“You are mistaken, Mr. Holmes. I would be grateful for the ride home.”  


“Then allow me.” He offered his hand again.  


John watched his own fingers settle on a palm that was rough from long days holding the reins and riding through weather of all sorts. Mr. Holmes fingers folded over his, but he said nothing as he assisted him into the cart. Waiting for John to settle himself, he swung up easily to sit next to him. His legs seemed too long for the short space and John shifted to give him more space.  


“Now you can see why I usually walk. It’s a bit cramped and what isn’t already broken is threatening to break at any moment.” Mr. Holmes said with a laugh.  


“You should get a new cart.”  


“I may when I can.” He slapped the reins against the back of the horse and smiled again. “Wheelwrights are expensive, however, and I prefer to feed myself and my horse.”  


“Turn left here.” Giving directions saved John from having to respond. Mr. Holmes spoke so well that he’d forgotten how different their circumstances were. His petty worries about unwanted proposals and his sister’s ability to join the army seemed ridiculous when compared to Mr. Holmes struggle to keep himself fed by selling enough of his wares.  


“Ah. There it is.”  


John looked at the gray block that made up Watson Hall. It was not elegant or grand and it called to mind its early days as a fortress. It was built to weather storms off the Channel and repel anyone who dared try to take it from the Watson family. He could not imagine living anywhere else.  


His gaze flickered to the Moran house, farther north and closer to the water. It hunkered there, reminding him of the shared property line between the two families’ lands and the good sense of matching her with Sebastian. Once the Moran family had been vassals of Lord Watson, but in recent centuries, they had gained prestige and wealth of their own, a fact that Sir Albert bragged about on a regular basis. Moran Park was far more exquisitely decorated than Watson Hall yet the idea of living there, being mated to Sebastian, and being the son-in-law of Sir Albert horrified him.  


He had to be sure that Father never gave any true consideration to Sir Albert’s request. He would speak to him tonight though he must be aware of John’s dislike as he’d avoided Sir Albert each time he called.  


“You are a most peculiar Omega, Mr. Watson.”  


John looked at Mr. Holmes and was once again caught by those scintillating eyes. Lowering his gaze to his lap, he asked, “How so?”  


“You have expressed no curiosity about why I would not sell you the pistol.”  


“You made it clear there was no point in asking.”  


“As I said, you are a most peculiar Omega.” He chuckled.  


_And you are a most peculiar peddler._ He did not speak the thought aloud, for he suspected that the light in Mr. Holmes eyes would vanish again and he would be facing that uncompromising stare once more.  


He didn’t need any more trouble right now. He had plenty to deal with already.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock Holmes hid a smile as the maid led him into a drawing-room on the first floor where Lord Watson was to receive him. It was more than a year since he’d been within a country home in this part of England, but little had changed. Dark wood and bare stone hid behind tapestries that were believably almost as old as the house. To his surprise, however, he found that the room he entered was a comfortable one, with walls painted a delicate blue and plaster moldings.  


He was somewhat surprised to find that the man working at the desk looked little like John Watson. The father was tall, thin boned, and pale while Mr. Watson had been small and golden as a ray of sunshine. What remained of Lord Watson's hair was a dark gray, where Mr. Watson's had been blonde. Only their storm blue eyes were similar.  


However, neither Mr. Watson nor the baron must guess the truth of why Sherlock had been reluctant to sell him the pistol. It was not only selling the pistol that concerned him. He would have been equally stubborn, no matter what Mr. Watson chose. It was his good fortune that he'd chosen something that gave him an easy excuse to resist making a bargain with him, although he certainly should have been more cautious and made sure the pistol box was well out of sight before he called to him. Idiot! Of all the items in his cart, why did Mr. Watson have to select the pistol? However, he should consider its loss as a small price for what he might receive in return.  


It had given him _entrée_ into the house. An offer of a night in the stables and a plate in the kitchen would not have sufficed. He wanted this chance to meet Lord Watson, not simply enjoy his hospitality. Sherlock had heard so much about the baron and his holdings here, and he was delighted to have the opportunity to meet the man and ascertain if Lord Watson was as honest and defiant of the French and their uneasy allies, the smugglers, as he’d heard whispered about in the shire.  


He could not recall the last time he’d met a man who was unfailing in his loyalty and put country above the profit he could gain by collaborating with the English owls busy plying the Channel with their cargoes of brandy and silk. Sherlock had to own to being curious as to why this baron resisted that temptation. He was as curious about Lord Watson as Mr. Watson had been about himself. He would have to guard himself closely around Mr. Watson, for he had already proven that he had a more insightful nature than would be good for everything Sherlock had planned.  


“Good evening, my lord,” Sherlock said, bowing.  


“My son tells me that you are seeking shelter within our walls for the night.” Watson’s voice was hearty and welcoming. The sign of an honest man or one well-schooled in the art of lying.  


“Yes.”  


“Have you traveled far?”  


Sherlock smiled. He understood the question for what it was. A query less about a weary traveler and more about what news might be had and from where.  


Towns all along the coast waited with bated breath to see if Napoleon’s next attack would be to their beaches. His smile didn’t falter as he remembered how wise the folks of this shire were to be so worried. To his surprise, their fears had not translated into greater vigilance, idiotic in his opinion, but he wouldn’t look that gift horse in the mouth. It certainly made his work easier.  


“I was in Dover not more than a week ago.” he replied.  


He had his host’s complete attention now. As the tall baron came to his feet, Lord Watson asked, “Any news of an invasion?”  


“Only the rumors you might hear at any crossroads. Certainly nothing new.”  


“Good.” Watson smiled. “Please, have a seat. I understand your name is Holmes.”  


“Sherlock Holmes, my lord.”  


“And John tells me, that you have a pistol in your cart of rare quality that he believes would make the perfect gift for my alpha child.”  


“So he tells me, my lord.”  


“He also tells me you are quite reluctant to part with it.” Lord Watson chuckled as he poured a glass of wine. “I should warn you that I’m reluctant to assist her in outfitting herself for the commission she has been seeking, although she thinks me oblivious to her plans.”  


Sherlock hid his surprise when the baron handed him the glass. He took an appreciative sip and smiled. It must have been aging in the cellars since long before the war. Such a choice vintage was not part of a peddler’s life, so he appreciated it all the more as it washed the road’s dust from his throat. “You are very generous, my lord.”  


“I have learned with experience that the best negotiations are those done with at least an appearance of camaraderie.” Watson filled his own glass and sat again. “I would like to see this pistol that my son has praised so highly, Holmes.”  


Sherlock reached under his waistcoat and drew out the weapon. Balancing it for a moment on his palm, he berated himself for his carelessness. He had not thought that this new life would come at the cost of a remnant of his past. Silently, he set the pistol in front of the baron.  


Lord Watson arched his gray brows and smiled. “I should have known that it would be something magnificent. John is not prone to exaggeration.” He ran a finger along the etching on the barrel. “It is well made and not new.” With a squint, he peered at the butt. “There appears to be a crest of some sort here.”  


“The gentleman who sold it to me was not well pleased to part with it.” Sherlock hurried to say, hopefully, his smile would look to be the insipid one of a peddler trying to please a potential customer. “However, his creditors had lost patience with him and I was able to give him enough guineas to soothe them.”  


“If you are weaving a tale for me, in hopes of increasing the price of this pistol, you need not. Give me the truth, man, so we might begin this bargaining in honesty.”  


Sherlock barely kept his flinch from showing. Blue eyes were not the only thing father and son had in common. They were too damn insightful, seeing aspects of him that no one else did. He’d been convinced Lord Watson would accept his out-and-outer about the pistol. It was a reasonable story.  


He might not have thought this through completely. Sherlock hoped he would not come to regret it.

***

“And don’t forget to remind Cook that Mr. Holmes will be coming to the kitchen for his dinner.”  


John looked up from his list when he heard a muffled chuckle. Mrs. Carson’s face pinched as she attempted not to laugh out loud. He tried to recall what he could have said that was so amusing.  


“That is at least the fifth time you have mentioned the peddler,” she said, smiling. “Did he really unsettle you so greatly?”  


“He did. He showed a decided lack in manners.”  


“Then why did you bring him to see your father?”  


John looked at his list again, wishing once more that he had waited to speak with her until tomorrow. However, delaying his daily meeting with her would create even more questions from their housekeeper. Mrs. Carson still treated him like a child, though truth be told, she treated Father with the same gentle concern.  


“Father has been looking for a gift for Harry,” John answered, knowing that Mrs. Carson would only keep pressing. “The peddler had something I thought to be appropriate.”  


“And he is quite handsome.”  


“Mrs. Carson!”  


The housekeeper didn’t restrain her laugh this time. “Master John, I am not so old as you think, and while I may only be a Beta, I can certainly still enjoy the sight of a good looking Alpha. As young as you are, I can only assume you do as well.” She smiled. “Alpha’s aren’t the only ones who can enjoy the differences between sexes.”  


“I realize that. However -” John glanced at the open door as shouts rang out along the hall.  


“That would be the other two. They were here earlier looking for you.” Mrs. Carson rose.  


“I’ll give you the rest to Cook after supper.”  


“Of course.” Mrs. Carson smiled a greeting as she passed the cousins coming in the door. “Hush now, you two. You know his lordship likes the house quiet in the hour after tea.”  


John chuckled when Harry rolled her eyes as she always did when scolded by Mrs. Carson.  


Coming to his feet, he gave his younger sister a kiss on the cheek, always surprised at how much taller she’d grown in the past year. He held a hand out to Greg and smiled. Both Alpha’s more closely resembled his father’s side of the family. John, on the other hand, was the spitting image of his Omega papa. Greg gave him a kiss on the cheek. “You look quite aglow this evening, my dear cousin. Can it be that you expect a visit from an ardent suitor?”  


“That’s not funny,” Harry retorted with a scowl before John had the chance to respond. “If I were head of this household, I would make certain no Moran ever stepped foot within these walls again.”  


“Sebastian Moran would be an excellent match for John. He is -”  


“A want witted beefhead.”  


John put his hand on Harry’s arm. “Enough, both of you. We are all home tonight, let’s talk of things that matter to all of us, not just the one.”  


“Your marriage does matter to all of us,” Greg said as he sat and folded his hands together on the knees of his green breeches. “We all wish to see you well settled.”  


“That is Father’s concern, not yours.” John smiled at him. “You would be better concerned for what Father thinks of all your recent calls to Miss Donovan.”  


“I go to speak with her brother as well.”  


Harry sat on the arm of the settee and crowed, “Getting her brother on your side so he will agree to her marrying you. Brilliant plan!”  


“Listen to her.” Greg shook his head then pushed his dark hair out of his face. “Barely out of her infancy and trying to sound like a swell upon the Season.”  


“I show more sense than you.” Harry retorted stoutly, “Because I will not be swayed by Sebastian Moran to persuade John to accept his proposal.”  


“You haven’t, Greg!” John gasped.  


“It does make sense. The Moran’s would provide well and you would be close to Watson Hall. If Uncle accepted Doctor Sawyer’s offer you’d be halfway across the shire!”  


“Doctor Sawyer offered for me?”  


“You didn’t know?”  


He shook his head. To own the truth, he barely recalled anything about the Beta female who’d asked him to dance twice at a gathering almost a year ago. It wasn’t the fact that she’d made an offer for him or the fact that Father had turned it down. It was the fact that Father had never mentioned anything to him about it.  


He had believed that Father was being honest with him, but he wasn’t so sure now.  


“I’m glad Father was sensible about that,” Harry announced, standing. “Sarah Sawyer has never said anything worth listening to.”  


“Have there been any other offers?” John asked Greg as Harry continued to jabber.  


“Yes,” he said reluctantly. “But you would have agreed with Uncle’s decision each time.”  


John slowly came to his feet. Why had he never guessed? He’d seen the callers come and go. He’d noted how Father had been distinctly unlike himself after certain conversations. He appreciated Father’s task of finding him a good mate, but he hadn’t guessed that Father wouldn’t share any discussions of his future.  


“John?”  


He turned, not realizing he’d been walking toward the door until Harry called after him.  


“What is it?”  


“You should know - “  


“Harry!” Greg hissed. “Hush!”  


Harry raised her chin and glowered at her cousin. “I’ll say what I like. John deserves to know that Father told Sir Albert he would give him an answer within the fortnight.”  


“You ask to be treated like an adult,” Greg scowled, “but you can’t keep your mouth shut for more than a day.”  


John put his hand on Harry’s arm and lifted his own chin. Greg could be exasperating when he thought he was right. Tonight, he couldn’t be more wrong.  


“Thank you, Harry,” he said. “I believe I’ll talk to Father about this as soon as possible.”  


“Thought you might.” She grinned and John flashed back to her face as a child. “Don’t delay. I don’t want you married to Sebastian Moran either.”  


“He has to marry someone!” Greg’s voice was still tight with anger. “And Sebastian isn’t so bad once you get to know him.”  


“I’ve tried,” John said. “I even went for a carriage ride with him and Father and Sir Albert one day. He was loud and monopolized every conversation. Oh! And he wiped his nose on his sleeve.”  


Greg chuckled. “You’re describing Sir Albert, not Sebastian. You should give Sebastian another chance, John. You might be pleasantly surprised.”  


“Or not.” mumbled Harry.  


John glanced from one to the other, then left the sitting room. Damn! Sebastian Moran might not be as loathsome as his father, but he did not in any way want to marry him. He disliked the lascivious stares and coarse jests, which were more appropriate for a pub of rowdy Alpha’s than for an Omega of good stock. Worst though, were the rumors of the part Sebastian had played in the capture of a smuggler who had been betrayed by his own men and sent to hang. Word was, Sebastian Moran had given his name to the authorities in order to gain control of the smugglers and a share of their profits.  


John despised the smugglers, who broke the King’s laws, but a lack of loyalty was the most vile crime he could imagine. He could never mate with anyone who would betray another. He intended to tell Father that.  


Immediately.

***

A few hours later saw John still pacing through the house. Father had guests that evening, a few men from the village seeking guidance on issues of property lines and ancient water rights. Because he took his obligations so seriously, John could not imagine intruding on such a meeting, although they seldom lasted this long.  


He went out to the terrace and stared up at the stars shimmering in the distance. Water burbled in the background of the nearby rose garden.  


John sank onto a stone bench, only to immediately come back to his feet. His disquiet would not let him sit and think. He wandered off the terrace and into the gardens. When he saw the carriages awaiting Father’s guests, he turned and walked in the other direction. Hopefully by the time he lapped the house they would be gone. If he walked three times around the house, would the fairies come and spirit them away?  


John laughed. It was three widdershins around the church that called the fairy folk.  


“What is so amusing on such a lovely night?”  


At the unexpected question, John’s breath stuttered and he froze. He watched through the darkness as a shadow thickened to become a silhouette that was immediately identifiable.  


“Mr. Holmes?” he gasped.  


“Did I frighten you?” Mr. Holmes held up a pail. “I was collecting water for my horse.”  


“The trough is near the stables.”  


“True.” Glancing over his shoulder, he added, “But I heard the water from the fountain in this direction and decided to look at it.”  


It was a perfectly reasonable explanation, but John wondered if it were really the truth. He had just been looking toward the house, not the gardens.  


“You are welcome to enjoy the gardens during your stay here tonight,” he said to Mr. Holmes as he walked past.  


Mr. Holmes paused. “Aren’t you coming, Mr. Watson?”  


“Pardon?”  


“You were walking in this direction, so I thought I would walk with you as far as the stables.” He smiled, and his teeth glittered in the same light of the rising moon. “Unless you have changed your mind, of 

course.”  


John couldn’t believe how Mr. Holmes managed to make him feel like an outsider in his own beloved home. In a tone that would have daunted even Harry, he said, “I have not changed my mind.”  


“Then come along.”  


“You give orders very easily for a peddler.”  


Mr. Holmes laughed. “Why does that bother you when you ignore all of them?” He motioned with his head. “I’m going this way. Join me if you wish. You know you are curious about the pistol.”  


“I _am_ curious,” John said as he matched his steps along the walkway. “What did Father think of it?”  


“Your father is most interested in the pistol.” He chuckled. “And he is an exceedingly kind host, offering his wine to a stranger.”  


“Father enjoys the chance to talk to strangers.” He hesitated then asked. “Is he buying the pistol?”  


“You should ask him.”  


“I couldn’t. Harry was about during supper, and Father has been busy all evening.” He paused by the stable door lit by a single lantern. It was so quiet compared to the times when he came here to get his horse to ride. The stable hands must all be asleep by this hour. He envied them their carefree sleep. “I thought you might be more forthcoming now that you are to be on the road.”  


“Bad luck to speak of a transaction before it is completed.”  


He smiled. “Only a bit more forthcoming is all, I see.”  


Setting the bucket on the ground, Mr. Holmes said, “There is still a matter to be settled between us, Mr. Watson.”  


“And what would that be?”  


“The matter of payment for my food and shelter.”  


“You need only deduct what you believe is a fair price from what you ask for the pistol.”  


“But if your father chooses not to buy, then I’ll owe your family for my stay. I agree with Polonius when he said, ‘neither a borrower nor a lender be.’”  


“Polonius. Shakespeare?”  


“ _Hamlet_ , act one, scene three if you wish to be exact.”  


John stared at him. “You know Shakespeare?”  


“What?” Mr. Holmes gave a sharp laugh, but he was no fool. The twinkle had evaporated again from his heated eyes. “You didn’t think a simple peddler would know of such things?”  


“I have no idea what a peddler should know. To be honest, Mr. Holmes, I doubt if you have any idea what a peddler should know.”  


His hand upon John’s arm halted him from walking away. He turned him to face him. In the dim light from the stable lantern, Mr. Holmes eyes sliced into him like silver daggers. “What in blazes is that supposed to mean?”  


“Sir, such language - “  


“To hell with my language!” His fingers tightened on John’s arm as he tried to back away. “If you wish me to be courteous, then give me the courtesy of an answer.”  


John stared up at him. To give voice to his suspicions had been ridiculous. “If you wish an answer, I will say that I believe you enjoyed too much of my father’s wine. I can think of no other reason why you would mistake my words for a threat.”  


For a long moment, he held his breath, he feared Mr. Holmes would not accept his falsehood. He should have kept his mouth in check, instead of blurting out his misgivings. Then Mr. Holmes hold on his arm loosened to a gentle caress, sending a thrill of delight through him. John moved away, for that was more frightening than his anger.  


“Good night, Mr. Watson,” Mr. Holmes said as he bowed his head.  


“Good night.” John had no intention of lowering his defenses again. As he went across the stable yard to the gardens, he kept his pace slow, refusing to let Mr. Holmes think anything he’d said was causing John to run away.  


He did not need his life complicated by another impossible Alpha. Father had jested about not wanting him to marry until he was as old as Mrs. Carson, but he knew he wished him settled in a home of his own. How many times had Father said in the past fortnight that John was a year older than his papa had been when he’d accepted Father’s proposal? Too many.  


And Greg! How could he have suggested it would be an excellent idea if John were to marry Sebastian? His cousin and Sebastian Moran had been enemies since birth, being born within months of each other.  


He frowned. Tonight had not been the first time he’d heard Greg speak of the Moran’s without his usual rancor. His cousin was more of a gentle soul, not usually inclined to jump into the fray with the French as Harry wished to do. Had he seen something in Sebastian that John had not?  


John noticed something moving near Mr. Holmes’ wagon. Who could it be? He almost chuckled when he saw moonlight on dark hair. Harry! It must be her. She’d not been able to hide her curiosity about what the peddler had in his cart. Even Father’s request that she wait until the morning to bargain with Mr. Holmes might not have been enough to keep Harry from poking around tonight.  


“Harry, what - ?”  


A hand clamped over his mouth. His eyes grew wide as he realized that the moonlight had betrayed him. It was not his sister by the wagon. This man was broader than any in his family… and he was not alone.  


The hand pulled him back against a hard form. The odors of sweat and sea washed over him. Smugglers! Dear God, what were they doing at Watson Hall?  


He drove his elbow back into the man’s stomach. The man cursed. He re-aimed and swung his arm back even harder. The man retched, and John pulled away. He caught him again before he could run a single step.  


“Father!” he cried, “Help me!”  


They shook him viciously and a hand closed around his throat. His eyes blurred, but he heard a shout from the house. He wanted to yell again, but no sound emerged from his throat as he fought for consciousness. Another shout came from the stables, but he couldn’t understand the words through his ringing ears. His captor pushed him away. He struck the wagon and fell to his knees, half blind with the pain along his ribs.  


He picked up something and threw it at the fleeing shadow. It missed the man, but John heard another shout. Looking up, he saw the wagon moving. He tried to scramble out of the way. What a fool he was! That rock must have been keeping Mr. Holmes wagon in place.  


He tried to regain his feet but dropped back to his knees as his head spun.  


“Look out, John!”  


The shout seemed to come from everywhere. He stared at the wagon as it hit a broken cobble and tilted toward him. He struggled to rise. Something slammed against him, throwing him to the courtyard and away from the wagon. He moaned as he hit the ground. The crash of the wagon reverberated around him. Glass shattered, and metal clanged on the stones.  


A groan was warm against John’s cheek. He twisted to see Mr. Holmes face only a finger’s breadth away from his own. His eyes were closed, saving John from that potent gaze that even the darkness could not dim. Shadows etched lines upon his brow. He’d saved him. But…  


John slid out from under him to see his right arm had disappeared under the wagon. He crawled past Mr. Holmes and pushed against the wagon.  


Hands under his arms brought him to his feet.  


“Help me help him!” he cried.  


“Let the Alphas help him,” his father ordered.  


He flung his arms around his father as he stared at the Alphas gathering around the wagon. Some from the stables and those from the village; Harry and Greg were there too. They all stared at Mr. Holmes who didn’t move. Was he dead? Had he died saving John?  


John breathed shallowly as Greg and Harry joined the others and propped their shoulders against the wagon. Veins popped along Greg’s forehead as he pushed. When the wagon was raised off the ground they shoved it aside.  


Mr. Holmes groaned.  


John knelt beside him. Brushing his dark curls back from his face, he whispered, “Mr. Holmes?”  


He didn’t answer.  


Knowing he was bold, but knowing as well that the situation was beyond the canons of propriety, he murmured, “Sherlock? Can you hear me? Are you hurt?”  


“What do you think?” he demanded before his words vanished into curses. His eyes opened, his glare was as taut as his lips. “The wagon went right over my arm.” He put his left hand on John’s shoulder. “Help me up. I have to check the wagon.”  


Father leaned over him. “Don’t worry about the wagon!”  


“He must if the smugglers come back!” John retorted.  


Harry cried in excitement, “Smugglers? Here?”  


Father gave her no chance to get an answer as the men of the village ran for their carriages and a chance to capture the smugglers who endangered the village. Ordering the wagon secured in the stables, he motioned for several men to help Mr. Holmes into the house. “And send for Dr. Sawyer,” he added. “She’s the best bonesetter in the shire.”  


_Bonesetter?_ John bit his lower lip as he stared at Mr. Holmes right arm, which hung at an impossible angle. Damn the smugglers and their fingers that tried to lay claim to anything of value. They were almost as bad as their French allies. Worse, maybe, because they betrayed the law for the weight of gold in their pockets.  


He scanned the trees. The gray shadows could hide an army of smugglers. He wanted to rush inside and bar every door in Watson Hall. A curse shattered his fear as he turned to see Greg putting his arm around Mr. Holmes to help him to his feet.  


“Easy,” Mr. Holmes ordered, then cursed again.  


“Is it only your right arm that’s injured?” John asked.  


Mr. Holmes stared at him as if he’d just been declared mad. “ _Only_ my arm? You have a wondrous, irritating gift for understatement, Mr. Watson.”  


“Get the door, John.” His cousin snapped.  


He saw something flicker in Mr. Holmes eyes. Impossible! It could not be amusement when he must be suffering so much pain. Or was this injured arm just another of his half-truths? Shame flooded him when another groan slipped past his rigid lips.  


“Right arm,” Mr. Holmes said in answer to his father’s question. “Down from the shoulder, my lord. I shan’t be able to drive my wagon, and I shall - “  


“Be our guest longer than you planned,” interrupted John. When Mr. Holmes glowered, he offered him no sympathy. He must know that John shared his yearning for him to be on his way.  


With care, Greg helped him into the house. Father did not slow as he led the bizarre parade through the kitchens and into the small reception hall by the stairs. John left them long enough to send a lad to the small farm where Dr. Sawyer lived. A shudder wracked his shoulders. The last time they had needed to send for the doctor was the night Papa had died years ago.  


As he entered the small room that was so well lit the gold stripes threatened to leap off the wall covering, he listened to his father give quiet orders. He clasped his hands behind him as he heard him send several men to make sure the smugglers had left the lands of Watson Hall.  


“And take guns with you,” Father called to them as they scurried out.  


“They won’t need them.”  


John glanced, astonished, at Mr. Holmes, who was sitting, his face as gray as the stone walls of Watson Hall, with his right arm cradled in his left hand. Pouring a glass of wine from the decanter his father always had waiting for unexpected guests, John held it out to him.  


Mr. Holmes grimaced as he glanced at his arm. “My hands are a bit full at the moment, Mr. Watson, although I appreciate the thought.”  


Bending toward him, John put the glass to his lips. He sipped cautiously and smiled as he lowered the glass.  


“Thank you, Mr. Watson. I owe you a debt for your kindness.”  


“Repay me by telling me what you meant.”  


His smile didn’t waver, but his eyes became hard. “About what?”  


“The smugglers.” He helped him drink again. “You said something about no need for guns.”  


“By hell!” he growled when wine splattered down his shirt. “Be more careful. This is my best shirt.”  


“I didn’t mean to spill the wine.”  


“I know.” Mr. Holmes looked up at him, his face almost as close as it had been when he’d shoved John to the ground to save him from the wagon. “I’m not myself, Mr. Watson. Forgive my lack of manners.”  


“And mine. Thank you for saving me.”  


His smile became ironic. “I have to own I might have thought twice if I had known this would happen.” He winced as he shifted in the chair.  


“I doubt that.”  


“You seem to assume that I would risk life and limb for you, Mr. Watson.”  


“An easy assumption when you just did.” John set the empty glass on a nearby table and knelt by his chair. “Will you be honest about what you meant about the smugglers?”  


Mr. Holmes leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. “Why not? Do you know much of smugglers, Mr. Watson?”  


“Only what I’ve heard whispered about the shire.”  


“Then you should know that they have one universal trait. They know how to hide and stay hidden from any authority that might wish to halt them.” He grimaced. “I didn’t know a broken bone would hurt like this.”  


“I’m so sorry, Mr. Holmes.”  


“Sorry?” His brow furrowed as he demanded, “What do you have to be sorry for?”  


“If I hadn’t thrown that rock at the smuggler that seized me, the wagon wouldn’t have rolled.”  


“You threw a rock at him?” He started to chuckle, but the sound became a moan.  


“He hurt me. I wanted to hurt him back.”  


John was shocked when Mr. Holmes rested his left elbow on the arm of the chair and tipped John’s face toward his. “Your chin is scraped.”  


“Is it?” He put his fingers up to touch the sore spot but pulled them back when their fingers brushed. “It’s nothing compared to…”  


“Compared to what?”  


He smiled as he stood. “That smuggler treated me with the lack of manners I would expect of his ilk.”  


“Did he?”  


John almost recoiled from the fury in Mr. Holmes eyes. Then he realized it wasn’t aimed at him. How glad he was of that, for Mr. Holmes’ easy going smile covered a strong temper that pierced through him.  


“Where else are you hurt?” Mr. Holmes asked.  


“Just bumped about.” John turned to refill the wine glass. “I’ve been hurt as badly racing Harry on horseback across a field.”  


“So you fought back when you knew this man could have hurt you even worse?”  


“I did what I must.”  


Mr. Holmes smile was strained through the pain etching his face. “I’m sure you always do what you must, no matter what you face.”  


“I do.”  


He looked past John out the window at the downs, where even now lanterns wagged as his father’s men sought any sign of the smugglers’ trail. “I hope that’s a vow you will be able to keep, Mr. Watson.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to [Nymeria578](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Nymeria578/pseuds/Nymeria578) for once again being my guiding light and pointing out my ridiculous mistakes.

Something warned John that he was no longer alone. More than once, he suffered uneasiness while walking in the garden this afternoon as he waited for the time to meet Aunt Hudson in town. He suspected it to be no more than his imagination being fired by the smugglers’ attack last night. John hadn’t expected them to be so brazen. If he had not chanced by, Mr. Holmes’ wagon would be stripped clean… and Mr. Holmes would be gone.

He should have guessed that Father would insist Mr. Holmes be given one of the bedchambers and be treated like a welcome guest. Both Father and Harry were effusively grateful for how Mr. Holmes had saved him. Greg said nothing, though John could no longer guess what Greg thought about anything.

Gooseflesh prickled along his nape. Was someone else there? Turning, he nearly screamed as a man stepped out from behind a copse.

He took a shuddering breath. The tall man was not a stranger. Sebastian Moran would be known anywhere by his ginger hackles. Even from a distance and despite that red hair, he was undeniably handsome, his chiseled features as strong as his massive shoulders. He dressed, as always, in prime twig, a reminder to everyone that he was the one and only son of Sir Albert Moran.

“Sebastian, you startled me!” he chided.

As he stuck his thumbs in the waistband of his breeches, Sebastian Moran grinned. The expression John hated glinting in his dark eyes. “What happened to you?”

John’s face flushed as he touched his left cheek. That morning he had discovered it had become a rich tapestry of colors. “It’s nothing, I bumped it.”

“With help from the smugglers?” Sebastian laughed when John gasped. “John, you should know nothing stays quiet in this village.”

“Did you hear if any of the smugglers were caught?”

His patrician nose wrinkled. “No, of course not, because that didn’t happen.”

John sighed. The smugglers had never been so daring. Father had vowed to search every outbuilding on Watson Hall property and urged his neighbors to do the same. Most would. As for Sir Albert, John was not sure what he would do, for he was even more incomprehensible than Greg.

As they walked toward the house, John flinched when Sebastian said, “I heard Harry was hurt, too.”

“No, not Harry. Sherlock Holmes.”

Sebastian put an arm out to block John’s way. “Who in perdition is Sherlock Holmes?”

“That language is unnecessary.”

He grasped John’s wrist. “Answer my question!”

John tried to twist away, his small Omega stature giving him no help. When Sebastian’s fingers tightened, John gasped, _“Mon Dieu!”_

“What did you say?”

_Dash it!_ He must get rid of the horrible habit that had been such a joke just a few months ago when there had been no threat of invasion. “Release me, and I shall answer your questions!”

When Sebastian’s fingers moved along John’s arm, he ripped himself out of Sebastian’s grip, wrenching his elbow.

“Stop that!” He ordered when Sebastian teased the curve of his ear.

“Don’t be so prim, John.”

“I don’t want to be pawed.” John pushed past Sebastian and climbed the steps to the terrace.

Grabbing John’s hand again, Sebastian did not let him slip away. “Who’s Holmes?”

“A peddler.”

“Peddler? A peddler is staying in your house?”

John drew his hand out of Sebastian’s and went to the door. “Father is grateful that Mr. Holmes saved my life last night.”

“When your face was bruised?”

“Yes.” John looked toward the stable where the wagon overturned.

Sebastian spat out a profane oath which reddened John’s cheeks.

John wasn’t sure how to get rid of Sebastian. He didn’t want to go into the house with him trotting after like a puppy, but there was no choice. Perhaps Greg, who seemed to have become friends with Sebastian in the last month, would be about and engage him in some sort of discussion while John… While he checked on Sherlock. Avoiding the temptation to do that had him lingering in the garden in the first place. The doctor had assured them that Sherlock’s arm didn’t break as they’d feared. Instead, he had wrenched his shoulder fiercely, an injury that would take almost as long to heal as a broken arm.

But John could not avoid checking on Sherlock any longer, he realized when he saw movement in the morning room. Harry came running out to grab his hands and pull him into the room that surrendered itself to shadows with the passage of the sun overhead. The pair of chairs, on either side of a settee offered the perfect place for a conversation.

“Come and hear what Sherlock was telling me about how the French are moving across the continent.” Harry babbled.

“Yes,” Sebastian said, his voice as grim as Harry’s was joyous, “let us hear what _Sherlock_ has to say.”

Harry gave John a guilty grin, but tugged him toward the chairs by the window. He was grateful that she gave him this excuse to get away from Sebastian.

All thoughts of his sister and his neighbor vanished when Sherlock rose from the settee on which he had been sitting. John noted that Sherlock’s right arm was hidden in a sling and his color was a decided gray beneath his tan. Even so, a smile slowly curved along his lips and John fought to breathe. John wondered how many Omegas he’d charmed into buying his wares with that smile, for he could not imagine telling him no now.

“How are you feeling?” John asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“As if I’ve been run over by a wagon.” His laugh was gentle. “Actually, better than you look, Mr. Watson.”

“Were his bruises caused by your hesitation to endanger yourself?” demanded Sebastian from behind John.

When Sherlock’s gaze flickered from John to Sebastian, John released the breath he had been holding. Sherlock’s smile lost its warmth when fingers cupped John’s elbow. Sebastian’s fingers! He shook them off. 

John should caution Sherlock about Sebastian’s temper. He’d seen Sebastian strike a man from his feet with a single blow. The man had not awakened for so long, they feared he was dead. But John could not speak of that when Sebastian stood beside him.

John said, “Sebastian, Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is Sebastian Moran.”

“Mr. Watson was not hurt by my hesitation, but, I’m afraid, by my determination to keep him from being killed.” Sherlock extended his hand.

Sebastian ignored it. “So you ended up getting him bruised and yourself an invitation to stay at Watson Hall, Holmes?”

“That’s true.”

“You were an idiot to think you could catch a wagon.”

“Sebastian,” said John, “Sherlock saved my life.”

Sherlock grinned when the other man bristled. Resting his right hand on the back of a chair, he winced as the simple motion sent agony through him. The blasted arm might not be broken, but it ached as if it were. “Forgive me,” he said, lowering himself onto the settee. “Tis the price of being a hero.”

“Hero.” Sebastian dropped into a chair, then came to his feet again, for John had not sat. “Pushing him away from a wagon is hardly heroism.”

“Sebastian!” chided John. 

Sebastian scowled. “I thought I had the right to say what I wished. After all -”

“I believe Mr. Watson is disturbed by your strong words.” Sherlock said.

“When will you be leaving, Holmes?”

John’s face lost all color as he looked from Moran to him. Because Sherlock was leaving or because Moran hadn’t? _Blasted leg!_ Sherlock's frustration eased when he watched John walk past him to ring for tea.

“I am not sure yet,” he replied. “Lord Watson tells me there have been few traveling merchants around this village.”

“Travelling merchant?” Sebastian laughed without humor. “That is a fancy name for a peddler.”

“Probably, but a traveling merchant is what I am.” He rested his left elbow on the arm of the settee and smiled as he noted the wide arc John kept between himself and Moran as he came to sit beside Sherlock. He hid his amusement as Moran’s face grew long with fury.

“Are you in more pain?” John asked, adjusting the sling that threatened to slip from Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock almost spoke the truth that he could not be in pain when John was touching him so sweetly. Yes, he was suffering an agony, but an agony caused by the urge to draw John into his arms and sample his lips.

“No more than one should expect,” he answered. That, at least, was the truth, although he wondered why he had experienced this need to be honest with John now.

“Sebastian,” John said, “please sit and tell us what you have heard of the smugglers.”

Harry cried, “Yes, tell us!” She sat on the other side of her brother and looked up expectantly at Sebastian.

Grumbling, Sebastian said, “John, I must speak with you. Alone!”

John stood, reluctant to obey even a single one of the orders Sebastian fired at him as if he were the lowest servant in his house. “Harry, tea should be here posthaste. If there is anything Mr. Holmes -”

“He’ll be fine!” snapped Sebastian, taking John’s wrist and jerking him toward the door. “You need not watch over him like a mother bird.”

John pulled free of him. “What is it?” he demanded heatedly when they stood in the hall beyond the door. He would not go any farther with Sebastian.

“Get that Alpha out of your house!”

“What?” He pressed his lips closed to contain his laughter when he saw Sebastian’s rage. “Sebastian, he cannot drive his wagon with his shoulder wrenched as it is.”

Sebastian shrugged and grabbed John’s wrist again. “He can walk. Get rid of him.”

“Mr. Holmes is my father’s guest.”

“I want him gone, John. I won’t have him stealing your affections.”

“Stealing my affections. From whom?”

“From me.”

John started to tell him that was ridiculous, then realized Sebastian might take his answer as a vow that he had a _tender_ for him. “Good day, Sebastian.”

He feared Sebastian would not release him, but slowly his fingers unwound from John’s wrist. He strode to the door and, not even waiting for the footman, opened it and then slammed it behind him.

Trouble was coming. John shuddered as he had in the garden. As soon as Sebastian spoke with his father, he was sure both men would call.

“Is that an example of the welcome around this village?” Sherlock asked from the doorway of the morning room.

“Don’t judge all of us by Sebastian.”

“Should I judge all the residents by you?”

“Don’t be silly.” John didn’t look at him. “Do you need something?”

“Your company for tea.” Sherlock gestured to where a maid was placing a tray with all the makings for a pleasant tea on a table by near the bay window.

John wondered where Harry went. She might easily have slipped out of the room while he spoke with Sebastian, but that was not like her. She usually preferred to be in the midst of any hullabaloo.

“Mr. Watson?”

At the bafflement in Sherlock’s voice, John forced his gaze back to him. He smiled as he motioned toward the tray with a grace that suggested he was the host. Again John wondered where he acquired such polished manners. Other peddlers coming to Watson Hall were as rough as the life they lived.

“Thank you,” John said, knowing he must say something. He chose a chair across from the settee leaving no chance that Sherlock would sit right next to him. Close proximity to him had an odd effect on John, so odd that he found it difficult to think of anything else.

John reached for the teapot, glad to have something to do other than become lost in his uncomfortable thoughts. When Sherlock sat cautiously on the settee, a flicker of pain crossed his face. 

“How are you feeling?” John asked, before he could stop himself. “Really?”

Sherlock smiled. “Not as well as I let your friend Moran think, but not as bad as the compassion in your eyes suggests.” As John handed him a cup of tea and poured a second for himself, Sherlock asked, “Why do you put up with that cur?”

“Because I must.”

“You must? Why?”

“Because Sebastian Moran may become my betrothed.”

Sherlock set his cup back on the table. Mayhap he had misunderstood John. No, his ashen face warned that Sherlock had heard correctly. “That is preposterous!”

“I agree, but Sebastian’s father is our neighbor. It would be deemed an excellent match. Sir Albert -”

He should not have assumed that things could not get worse. “Sir Albert Moran?”

“Yes. You know him?”

“Of him.” Sherlock kept his smile in place, but he chose his words with care. “There cannot be many who failed to hear of Sir Albert’s single foray into politics.”

John glanced over his shoulder as if he expected both Morans to be lurking there. “You should not speak of that around the village. His actions in berating the prime minister in front of the Prince Regent embarrassed everyone here.”

Disregarding the blade of pain slicing through his shoulder, Sherlock reached across the table to cup John’s chin in his left hand. John’s eyes met his with an honesty that he wished he could return. That this lovely sprite could be given to that beast seemed the worst injustice imaginable. “Last night I told you I was sure you would do what you must, John. I cannot believe that has changed. You will find a way to halt this betrothal.”

“Mayhap.” John murmured, but he looked away.

“Why mayhap?”

“Greg seems to be in favor of it, and Father often heeds his counsel.”

“And not yours?”

John’s smile was weak. “Father feels an Alpha knows better in these matters.”

“What do you think?”

For a long moment, Sherlock thought John wouldn’t answer as he stirred milk into his tea. Then he said, “I think I hope you are right.”

“That you will find a way to get out of this betrothal?”

John nodded, then his smile grew stiffer. “You ask a lot of questions, Mr. Holmes.”

“I have found that is the way to learn things.” Sherlock picked up his cup again and took a sip. The blend was not strong, the leaves likely reused to save Watson Hall’s precious stores. “Harry calls me Sherlock. Will you, too?”

“All right.” John glanced toward the window.

Sherlock was not surprised when he did not return the offer to use his given name. “Do you need to be somewhere just now, Mr. Watson?”

“I must meet my great-aunt in the village this afternoon.” John put down his cup.

“Your great-aunt?”

“Don’t look so shocked. You haven’t had a chance to meet her because she’s been visiting in Canterbury.”

“But why do you need to meet her? Doesn’t she own a carriage?”

John’s brows arched. “Aunt Hudson is somewhat eccentric. She does not like to ride alone, so she takes the mail coach.”

“The sister to the former baron?”

“I told you she was a bit eccentric. She likes the chatter she hears on the mail coach and the people she meets. She has told me, more than once, that to confine oneself to the Polite World is to miss out of some of the most interesting folks there are.”

“I look forward to meeting your great-aunt.”

“Just prepare yourself. She speaks her mind. She’s not cruel, but she is honest.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Every word you say intrigues me more.”

A clock rang from somewhere in the house. “I fear I shall be late, because I must give my friend Molly a look-in before I meet the mail coach at the inn, so I must ask you to excuse me.”

He watched John stand with a grace that only teased him to think of how handsome an Omega he was. Sherlock must not be waylaid from his work. “Mr. Watson, would you by chance be going near Mr. Jensen’s warehouse while you are in the village?”

“Molly leaves not a block from the shore where the warehouse is.” John hesitated, then asked, “Do you want me to take a message to Mr. Jensen for you?”

Sherlock came to his feet with care, John noted. Did his head still right with the concussion of the accident, as John’s did if he moved too swiftly? Reaching under his waistcoat, Sherlock pulled out a package wrapped in brown paper. “I was supposed to deliver this to him when I reached the village. I have had it with me since I last left London, so there is no hurry.” He gave John a wry smile. “On the other hand, I have been carrying it about for some time now, so he might be waiting for it.”

John held out his hand. “If you wish, I can take it to him for you.”

Sherlock’s grin sent something delightful thought John’s heart. “It is not meet that a peddler should ask a baron’s son to run errands for him.”

“You are my father’s guest. I can do no less.” John chuckled as he added, “And you have been very kind not to remind me that it is my fault you are hurt.”

“Not yours, but that of those accursed smugglers, who should have known better than to come here.”

John took the package which could not hold more than a sheet or two. “Is that what you and Harry were talking about?”

“No.” Sherlock chuckled as he rested his hand on the chair again. “She was trying to find out what news I had of the war. It seems your young sister is very determined to go and punch Boney in the nose.”

“It’s not funny!”

“That she wants to punch Boney?”

“That she wants to go and fight.” John blinked back the tears of frustration that came too easily when he thought of Harry going off to fight. He wouldn’t let Sherlock see his tears. John’s jealousy weighed on him, threatening to choke him with its strength. His fear for Harry was real, there was no question of that. And that he would have been in the same danger, had he been given the chance to go, had not been forgotten. When he acknowledged the jealousy, the guilt ate at him. Guilt for wanting to hold Harry back and keep her safe, while wanting nothing more than to leave to fight for her same cause. “She’s a dreamer of she thinks Father will purchase her a commission.”

“I don’t think a commission means that much to her. She would go enlist if she had to.”

Shaking his head, he whispered, “How can she be so shortsighted? There is no glory worth dying for.” He hoped his tears carried not as jealousy, but fear for Harry’s safety. 

“Are you so certain of that?”

John stared at Sherlock as if seeing him for the first time. He could not mistake the quiet conviction in Sherlock’s voice. Although John had seen Sherlock’s face without a smile before, he was sure he had never seen Sherlock so resolved as he was now. “If you feel that way,” he retorted, “perhaps you should be toting a gun on some battlefield instead of hawking your goods down these country lanes.”

“I would be of little use now.” Sherlock tapped the sling.

“Which is most convenient for you in the midst of this discussion. I hope you did not air your opinions for Harry. She needs little inducement to run away and join the army.”

Sherlock came around the chair between them. With his hand on the back of it, less than a finger’s breadth from John’s, he met John’s gaze without compromise. “I know you do not know me, Mr. Watson, but I have done nothing to convince you that I would send a young Alpha into the maw of war.”

“You haven’t?”

“Not that I was aware of. If you think differently, will you enlighten me?” His hand shifted on the back of the seat, so the tips of his fingers covered John’s.

John fought to breathe past the sudden lump in his throat. Was it caused by his fear for Harry? No, those tears still clung to his lashes. Or his heart? No, it was throbbing wildly in his chest. Or delight? He should not be delighted with Sherlock’s bold touch, but he could not deny the truth.

His voice sounded strangled in his ears, but he managed to say, “Do not think me less than grateful for what you did, Sherlock, for I know you saved my life, but it is that very type of heroic gesture that Harry sees herself making in an effort to save England from Napoleon’s invasion.”

“Mr. Watson-”

“Please let me finish,” he said, not sure he could finish the practiced words if he faltered here. “You must understand that there are many along these shores who would gladly see peace negotiated with that black-hearted Corsican. Livelihoods in the village have been ruined, and those who continue to prosper do so by throwing aside their honest ways to become smugglers and risk ending their days in a noose. Some of those folks would promise anything to see the war ended.”

“I did not suspect to find such sentiment here where you would suffer the brunt of the invasion.”

“Don’t you understand?” He shook his head and sighed. “That is just what I mean. You see only a glorious end to the war in Napoleon’s defeat while those here, who have so much to lose, are willing to consider other alternatives.”

“But that is treason!”

“No, it is not treason, for no one wishes to gainsay the government, only to safeguard those who are important to them. When a father looks at his children and realizes they could die in a French invasion, he may change his mind about victory at any cost.” John drew his hand from beneath Sherlock’s. “I bid you good afternoon, Sherlock.”

As he walked toward the door, Sherlock called to his back, “Mr. Watson.”

“Yes?”

He came to stand by John again. “Do you share their opinions?”

John shuffled where he stood. “I do not believe victory at any cost is worth my sister’s life.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“If you recall what you said to me last evening, you will know my answer.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “That you will do whatever you must to achieve your ends?”

“Yes.” John did not wait for his answer, hurrying out of the room before Sherlock pressed him any further. He would not allow his guilt to cloud his purpose. John couldn’t say his fear for Harry’s life was his only motivation, though it was the most pressing one. His own guilt would have to wait. He could not tell Sherlock. Not because he didn’t trust him, though he certainly had no reason to do so, but because he wasn’t sure himself of what he would do to keep Harry from joining the army. 

But he would do something, because if he, as an Omega, couldn’t go, he definitely wasn’t going to send his 17 year old sister off to die.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ever patient [Nymeria578](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Nymeria578/pseuds/Nymeria578) has once again been my saving grace. Lending me motivation on my own work while I dither on editing hers.  
> Also, thank you to those who were so patient through the wait between chapters. Life got real and motivation was sorely lacking.

Dust danced in the sunlight that found its way through the narrow windows. John wondered how anyone could work in such a dim place as he closed the door behind him.

He wished it were possible to close thoughts out of his mind as readily. On the way down the hill to the village, which clung to the strand, his conversation with Sherlock played through his head. John was not in favor of negotiating with the French for peace, but, somehow, he had found himself arguing for that. What a bothersome man Sherlock was! If John did not owe him the duty of being kind to Sherlock after he saved John from the smugglers, he would have been tempted to cut him direct.

With a sigh, John knew he would not have done that, even if he were not obligated to Sherlock. Father insisted on treating everyone under the roof of Watson Hall with respect.

“Mr. Watson!” Mr. Jensen, who was barely taller than his counter, wiped his hands on a stained apron. “Were you expecting the arrival of a package today?”

“No.” John smiled and held out the package Sherlock had given him. “Sherlock Holmes asked me to bring this to you.”

“Sherlock Holmes?” Mr. Jensen’s nose wrinkled, giving him the appearance of an overfed puppy.

“A peddler who arrived at Watson Hall last night.”

Mr. Jensen’s brown eyes twinkled. “Ah, I understand now. I have heard of the problems up at the baron’s house last night and of how a peddler came to your rescue.”

“I thought, in return, I would deliver this packet that he intended to bring you from London.”

“London?” Mr. Jensen’s brow ruffled again.

“I believe that is what he said.” John set the packet on the counter. Curiosity taunted him. On his other visits here with Father, Mr. Jensen had been effusive and jolly, not alternately smiling and frowning. Since Sherlock’s arrival, no one acted as they customarily did… except Sebastian. John did not want to think of him and his assumption that John would not only mate with him but would be honored to do so.

Mr. Jensen picked up the packet, glanced at it, then smiled. “Ah, I had forgotten about this. Thank you for delivering it, Mr. Watson.”

“You are most welcome,” John said, although he truly wished to ask what was in the packet. He hadn’t been inquisitive about it until he saw Mr. Jensen’s odd behavior. Although he wanted to wait and see what was within it, he said only, “Good afternoon, Mr. Jensen.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Watson.” Mr. Jensen looked up from the packet to add, “And thank your peddler for me.”

John wanted to tell him that Sherlock was not _his_ peddler, but John only nodded as he went back out into the sunshine. Steering the cart he had driven from Watson Hall along the cobbled street that led up from the harbor, he was glad to reach the neat stone house where his best friend lived.

John waved to Molly Hooper, who was working, as she did every day, in the rose garden encircling the parsonage where she lived with her father Reverend Hooper. Molly stood and waved back, her dark gold hair catching the sunlight, even below her bonnet’s brim. There were rumbles throughout the village, asking why a woman as pretty and prettily mannered as the minister’s daughter had never married. Molly never spoke of this private matter, even to John. However, John suspected it was because Molly had a _tendre_ for Greg. A few months back, his cousin called on Molly several times, and there had been murmurs about a possible marriage. Then Greg began visiting Miss Sally Donovan regularly. Although he spoke more of Miss Donovan’s brother, Andrew, everyone expected an announcement at any moment.

Everyone … including Molly. John wished he knew a way to ease his friend’s despair, but, because Molly never spoke of Greg, John could do nothing.

“I was beginning to wonder if you’d forgotten that I wanted to show you the new roses I planted,” Molly said, wiping earth from her hands as she opened the gate to let John into the well-tended garden. 

When Molly looked over her shoulder, puzzled, John laughed and leaned over the fence to pull free a vine that had embedded its thorns in his friend’s skirt. “I think your roses are becoming as attached to you as you are to them.” Roses were everywhere, climbing over the stone wall and up the sides of the house to grasp the thatched roof. Taking a deep breath of their sweet fragrance, John smiled.

“What happened to you?” Molly’s brown eyes grew as round as her mouth.

John touched his aching cheek. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard about the fracas with the smugglers at Watson Hall last night.”

“I heard about it.” She edged around John to look at the bruise Mr. Jensen had not seen in the dim warehouse or had chosen not to mention. “I didn’t realize you were hurt.”

“They were chased off before I could be hurt worse.” For some reason, he didn’t mention Sherlock’s part in rescuing him. John had never been reticent with his friend before, but now something kept him from adding more.

“Your father needs to put an end to those smugglers.” Molly scowled. “If they become any bolder, they’re going to be asking to be appointed to the village council.”

“Father tries to halt them, but they always manage to slip away.”

“Someone is warning them.”

Taking his friend by the arm, John drew her around the corner of the house. He did not want to chance someone overhearing Molly. Looking about to be certain no one was lurking, listening to them, he said, “I have thought so as well, and I know Father has been making inquiries in that direction.”

“He should make inquiries also into the question of whether they are obtaining help from the French.”

“I pray not.”

“As I do, but you must have heard the rumor that a boatload of the accursed Frogs was seen just off the spit.”

“No!” Ice dropped to the very center of John’s heart. “When?”

“Two nights ago.”

John shivered, although the day was warm. Two nights ago, Frenchmen may have come to their coast. Then, last night, the smugglers had dared to bring their heinous business right to Watson Hall. This did not bode well.

“Is it more than a rumor?” John asked, hoping Molly would put his mind to rest.

His friend did not. “Mr. Anderson did not think so. He was quite emphatic that he saw them. He even described the green uniforms that Papa told me are most definitely French.”

John clenched and unclenched his hands. Mr. Anderson was a man of somber temperament, not given to bouts of drinking at the pub. If it had been Mr. Wilson or even Sir Albert telling of seeing the boat, he could have discounted the stories as images brought forth by a bottle of blue ruin. 

“I wonder if Father knows of this,” he said quietly. “That may be why he had some of the gentlemen to the house for a discussion last night.”

Molly nodded. “Papa was going to go, but Mrs. James took ill and swore she was on her death bed.” She dimpled. “Again.”

John tried to smile, too, but he could not. Odd that Father had heard of these rumors, yet had not cautioned any of them. Mayhap he had reason to believe that Mr. Anderson had been confused about what he had seen.

He made his excuses to his friend to take his leave, remembered to compliment Molly on her roses, and quickly went back to the cart. Even though he set the horse to its best speed up the hill, he could not escape his thoughts.

_The French! Here in the village!_

_Impossible!_

If they even considered coming here, they must be met with every possible resistance. The Frogs could not win as much as a grain of English sand.

Looking out at the sea that was empty in the afternoon sun, he saw a bank of fog rising near the horizon. He shivered. A foggy night was the best time for smugglers and for a clandestine invasion of the village.

He hoped it would never come.

***

“We will speak of this again, William.”

Sherlock looked up from where he was perusing one of Lord Watson’s books in the quiet library. He could not recall the last time he had held a book and had a chance to read it. This one was in English, although many of the books on the shelves were in French and German. Clearly, the baron prided himself on his education. Sherlock had seen pieces of art in the house that were undeniably French, so he guessed the baron had more hatred for the smugglers who were breaking England’s laws than for the French.

This interruption had come at a bad time because he had let himself get swept up into the story, but he could not restrain his curiosity about who was speaking to the baron in such authoritative tones. 

He walked across the faded Persian rug to stand in the shadows of the doorway. Lord Watson had his back to him, so he had a good view of the baron’s clenched hands clasped behind him. The man who had clearly irritated John’s father stood in profile to Sherlock.

He knew instantly that this must be Sir Albert Moran. The handsome features of his son had grown thick with the passage of years, leaving Sir Albert with jowls that hung heavily along his jaw. Gray lined his thinning hair, and he clearly needed spectacles, because he was squinting at Lord Watson. His clothes, Sherlock noted with an appreciative eye, were as well made as his son’s. Mayhap John would hesitate to buy a piece of silk that might have been brought to England by an owl plying the Channel, but Sir Albert seemed to have no such scruples. His waistcoat was of elegant silk brocade that caught the light to shimmer with his every motion.

As Sir Albert raised a finger to point at Lord Watson, the baronet said, “We had a gentleman’s agreement, William.”

“We simply had a conversation,” replied Lord Watson with quiet dignity. “Nothing was decided about a betrothal announcement.”

“Nothing was decided about when.”

“That is true, but I shall not be hurried into this. Nor shall I hurry John. Another fortnight shall not matter.”

Sir Albert’s eyes lit up. “Then it is decided. We shall announce the betrothal in another fortnight.”

Sherlock’s respect for the baron increased tenfold when his voice remained calm. “That is not what I said, Albert. I must give the whole of this more thought.”

“What thought? You need not give the Omega a dowry. My son is quite mad for him.”

“There are other matters to consider, some much more important than a wedding between our children before the end of the summer.”

Sherlock edged back into the shadows. He had thought Lord Watson was not considering Sebastian Moran’s suit, but it appeared that he was. Perhaps the baron had not noticed how his son cringed when Moran was present.

He waited for the two men to go down the stairs and the slipped out of the room. He needed some fresh air to scour away the distaste left from eavesdropping on the conversation.

_Blast!_ He had thought he had given up any illusions of being a gentleman, but here he was ready to leap to John’s defense again. Hadn’t he learned anything after last night? The pain from his arm should keep his head clear, but he seemed to be having trouble thinking clearly about John because images of his beguiling smile muddled up his mind.

Sherlock reached the door in time to see a grand carriage being whipped up. He hoped the coachman was skilled, for a single chuckhole could upend a carriage going at that speed. When it disappeared past the gate, he walked in the opposite direction.

Harry came around a wing of the house. Seeing Sherlock, he waved wildly.

With a smile, Sherlock walked toward her. Young Harry obviously had something on her mind. Maybe it would John off of his.

“Where are you bound?” Sherlock asked.

“To do some practice shooting, so I’ll be ready.” She pulled a gun from beneath her riding coat.

“You hunt foxes with a dueling pistol?”

“Not foxes, but the sly French.” Harry’s grin widened. “I cannot wait to cross the Channel to make them my targets.”

“Let’s see how skilled you are.” Sherlock knew that attempting to convince her that she should think twice before joining the army would be a waste of breath.

As he walked with Harry toward the gate, Sherlock listened to her talk about her determination to serve her country. Did every young Alpha harbor dreams of glory?

Sherlock pushed that thought aside when they paused by a stone fence. Without comment, he watched Harry fire at a target she had carved into a tree halfway across an empty field. He made some suggestions to her to aim lower because the pistol kicked up on every shot. When he saw how slowly Harry reloaded the gun, he bit his lip to keep from warning her that she could be killed easily if she did not learn some speed in reloading. Unlike when she chased foxes across the downs, the French would be firing back in the hope of killing everyone in British uniform.

The rattle of wheels coming along the road brought an expression of dismay from Harry, warning Sherlock that someone she did not want to see her shooting was coming toward them. Turning he saw John driving toward them in a small cart. With him was a silver-haired woman who must be his great-aunt.

Harry muttered, “Sherlock…”

Sherlock held out his hand for the pistol. Harry gave it to him with a conspiratorial grin as she stepped forward to assist John out of the cart.

“Welcome home, Auntie,” she said with a smile.

“What have you been up to, child?”

“Auntie-”

“Don’t lather me with out-and-outers, child. I recognize that guilty expression. Your father always wore it when he was up to no good. Your grandfather, too, and his father. Must be some sort of strain of unremitting honesty in the Watson line.” She patted Harry on the cheek, then her eyes, as blue as John’s turned toward Sherlock.

He bowed his head toward her. “Good afternoon, my lady.”

“John,” Lady Hudson crowed, “you didn’t tell me he was this pleasant on the eyes. My boy, no wonder you are as skittish as a man hiding under his mistress’s bed when her Alpha is at the door.”

“Auntie,” John replied, stiffly. “This is Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock wanted to laugh Lady Hudson’s words, but he could not, for John might think his amusement was with him when he firmly held to his dignity despite his great-aunt’s words. Eccentric? That was no exaggeration.

Lady Hudson held out her vein-lined hand. “I am Martha Hudson, young man. You will call me Auntie, as the others do. Do I make myself clear?”

He bowed over her hand, glad to hide his smile. “Completely, my lady.”

“Cheeky. You are better on the eyes than the usual hawkers who wander through the shire.” Appraising him without apology, she smiled. “I can see why John is all atwitter today.”

Harry chuckled.

Her great-aunt focused a frown at her. “Don’t stand there snickering, child. Take me back to the house. The mail coach did not miss a single stone.”

“I would be glad to. John?” Harry asked, holding a hand out to her brother.

Her smile did not fool him, Sherlock noticed, but he handed her the reins. “Thank you.”

After she swung up to sit next to her great-aunt, Harry slapped the reins on the horse and drove on toward the gate.

John glanced at the pistol in Sherlock’s hand. “I see you and my sister have been getting some fresh air.”

“I’m not accustomed to being inside all day.”

“You are welcome to enjoy the gardens. The water garden is especially pretty at this time of year.”

“Would you show it to me?”

“I should go and let Father know-”

“What trouble your aunt got herself into?”

John laughed in spite of himself. “You would think a woman of her years would know that the driver of the mail coach would not take kindly to her comments about his driving as well as his personal habits.”

“You warned me.”

“I did. Auntie is one of a kind.”

“That is a shame. We could use more plain-speaking people.”

“If you will excuse me, I should tell Father all the details.”

“He might be busy.”

John frowned. “Why do you say that?”

Sherlock glanced along the road, and his stance abruptly resembled that of a stag pausing to listen for the hunter. Then he smiled. “You chose the very best time to visit your friend. Sir Albert just left. You must have passed him along the road.”

John shook his head. “I didn’t see his carriage. Mayhap he was not going home.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Do you mean to suggest that he wishes to cause upheavals for your neighbors as well as for your father?”

“What did he say to Father?”

“I was not privy to the whole conversation, but your father looked quite distressed.”

John struggled not to smile as his heart leapt with joy. If Sir Albert was disgruntled, it might mean that Father had told him that a betrothal between Sebastian and his son was out of the question.

Not wanting Sherlock to guess his thoughts, although John was sure he knew exactly why his smile refused to be hidden, he said, “I see Harry convinced you to shoot with him.”

“She has a good eye for a young one.”

“But?”

“You are right to try and talk her out of enlisting.”

“I know that.” John let his smile become sincere. “On that I never have second guessed myself.” He glanced again at the pistol which Sherlock held with the ease of a man accustomed to handling weapons. “I hope you are a better shot than she is, so she does not become overconfident.”

He turned and aimed across the field. John gasped when, holding the pistol in his left hand, Sherlock fired and bark danced away from the tree trunk.

“You need not be so surprised,” Sherlock said, waving aside the choking gun smoke. “I would be addled not to be able to protect myself and my wares” -he smiled as he glanced at his right arm- “though, you may not believe me when I say that I usually escape such attacks with much less damage to myself.”

“Have you been attacked often?”

“The roads along the shore can be very dangerous.”

“Smugglers?”

He shook his head. “They seldom bother me, because I have usually found shelter off the road before nightfall. Other vagabonds, who prefer to consider themselves knights of the pad, may not be brave enough to halt a carriage, but see a solitary peddler as an easy target.”

“English vagabonds?”

“Who else?”

John ran his fingers along the stone post. “Who else, indeed?” Looking across the field to where it dropped off to the sea, he said, “I heard some disturbing rumors in the village.”

“Of an invasion force from France floating just out of sight in the Channel?” When John turned to Sherlock, his eyes wide, Sherlock laughed. “Don’t look at me as if I read your thoughts. I know what is on every mind along this shore, for I have heard uneasy conversations over and over as I have traveled. There is nary a soul here who does not fear that Napoleon will throw his army upon these strands.”

“It shall not be amusing if it comes to pass.”

“From what your father said during a conversation we had earlier today, I suspect he has a few ideas of his own to welcome the French here.”

“Father told you of how he has given arms to the villagers and set up a warning system to fight off any invasion?” John could not be mores startled if Sherlock had told him that he had been named the new king.

“Not so succinctly as you have, but he did say he would be prepared.”

John turned away again, berating himself for betraying his father’s plans so carelessly. He had cautioned Harry so many times to watch what she said, and then he revealed the whole to a man he did not know.

Sherlock’s finger under his chin brought John’s face toward his. The strong odor of gunpowder vanished as he was caught anew by Sherlock’s gaze. As when they had stood on the road yesterday, the glint of humor had vanished from his eyes. The strength of the emotions burning within them unsettled John. Sherlock might jest with Harry and charm his great-aunt and prattle with his father about matters of little import, but Sherlock Holmes was more than the carefree peddler he portrayed so well. What was he hiding?

“John,” Sherlock murmured, using his given name with an ease that suggested he used it often, “you need have no fear that you have told me something that will undermine your father’s efforts to protect his family and village. I have traveled far through England, and I have seen similar preparations in every coastal town that faces the continent. It would be more of a surprise if he were not so vigilant.”

“You must think me an empty-headed prattle-box.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Sherlock chuckled. “If you were just an empty-headed prattle-box, you would be satisfied to marry Sebastian Moran, who could send you to London for the Season where you would be able to enjoy the company of other prattle-boxes such as yourself.” He edged a step closer. “I see your curiosity. Now let me satisfy it.”

“Satisfy it?” John whispered as his gaze settled on Sherlock’s smiling lips. Satisfy it with a kiss? He feared he was quite out of his mind to be thinking so about a peddler, but he could not deny his own thoughts of Sherlock’s arm sweeping around his waist and bringing his mouth to his.

“I have, on occasion, done my hawking in London, although I find the streets too close.” He laughed again. “And I find the competition too fierce. I prefer to spend my time walking these country lanes instead of selling from a stand pad in the city.”

“But you were recently there.”

“Was I?”

John frowned, “You said you brought the packet from London for Mr. Jensen.”

“It’s not unusual for me to make deliveries months after I receive something like that.”

John walked back to the gate, needing to put some room between them. “I would have guessed it would be easier just to send it with the post.”

“Some folks don’t trust the government to take care of things for them, so they decide to take care of them themselves.”

Whirling to see that Sherlock had not moved, John said, “Now that sounds like treason.”

“Does it?” Sherlock’s smile returned while he walked to where John stood. “Is it any different from your father arranging for a patrol along the shore? I do believe, John, you need to sort out your feelings on the whole of this.”

John did not move as Sherlock continued past him and disappeared through the gate. He was right. John did need to sort out his feelings - and not just on the war on the other side of the Channel. On that, he was very sure of his opinions. He wished he could be so sure of what he thought of Sherlock Holmes and who he might really be.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you [Nymeria578](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Nymeria578/pseuds/Nymeria578) for always being there.

John was so surprised at how simple it was to avoid Sherlock in the corridors of Watson Hall. Or mayhap Sherlock was avoiding him, for, save for meals, John seldom saw him during the fortnight after his visit to the village. As the pain in Sherlock’s arm diminished, he was often outside, coaching Harry in shooting or talking to the stable hands or in the garden, hunched down next to the gardeners as he engaged the men in conversation. John saw him deep in discussion with his father and heard that Aunt Hudson had invited him to have tea with her twice in the past two weeks.

That was why John should not have been startled when he was summoned to Aunt Hudson’s bright blue reception room to find Sherlock there, chatting with his great-aunt as if they were the best of friends. Sherlock had rid himself of the sling, but John noticed that each move with his right arm was cautious. It was apparently still bothering him. He was a bit astonished to discover Sherlock there, but not as amazed as he was to see Greg sitting on the gold settee beside Sherlock. John had seen his cousin even less during this fortnight than he had Sherlock, for Greg had developed a habit of dining with the Donovans.

As he entered, John smiled. This room suited Aunt Hudson. It was vibrant, with no concessions for her age. Whimsical bits of art sat beside the most recent books published in London. Aunt Hudson had met her mate during a London Season that was still renowned for its elegance. Though the marriage had originally been a happy one, the scandal of Uncle Hudson’s treason and subsequent hanging had left its scars visible for years afterward. For his whole life, John had admired his great-aunt’s strength, her graciousness under fire, her devotion to the Watson family, and of course, her sense of humor. 

Giving her a kiss on the cheek, he quickly obeyed when Aunt Hudson ordered, “Sit there by those two handsome young Alpha’s and be a good chaperone for your aunt who still likes to hear good-looking young Alpha’s vie to beguile her with courtly promises.”

“Auntie,” mumbled Greg under his breath. When he rolled his eyes, John jabbed Greg with his elbow. He glowered at John, then rested his elbow on the marble-topped table beside him.

“All we need now is Harriet.” Aunt Hudson continued, setting herself on her feet and walking spryly to the door.

“Is Harry coming too?” John whispered to Sherlock.

“Yes,” he said as quietly, “You know, she’s just as worried as you are about Harry’s plans.”

“She knows?”

Sherlock nodded.

“And she hasn’t stopped her?” John had expected Aunt Hudson to speak her mind on this as on everything else. Mayhap Harry would heed their great-aunt.

“She hasn’t done anything to stop her yet.” Sherlock smiled and reached for the plate of cakes. “Would you like one, John?”

Greg mumbled something else and stood, going to look out the window that gave him a view across the fields toward the Donovan’s house.

Sherlock chuckled under his breath. “He seems to be suffering seriously from a case of unrequited love.”

“Unrequited? What makes you think so?”

“There has been no announcement from that quarter, has there?”

John frowned and motioned the plate away. “You seem to have acquired Auntie’s unfortunate habit of enjoying gossip.”

“A bit of poker-talk can give one intriguing insights into people, and a peddler is expected to bring tidings as well as items to purchase.” Sherlock smiled. “You never repeat rumors, John?”

From the door, Aunt Hudson asked, “Where is that girl? Being late is an unattractive thing in a child.” She opened the door and peered out.

“I never try to repeat things unless I know them to be the truth.” John said.

Sherlock chuckled. “No wonder your great-aunt thinks you far too serious.”

“She has been speaking to you of me?”

Again, he smiled “Often.”

“If you were a gentleman, you would not have listened.”

“‘’Tis a good thing I’m nothing more than a peddler then, isn’t it?

John took a breath to retort, but running steps echoed wildly through the room before Harry burst through the door. She reached out to steady Aunt Hudson, who was barely out of her path, but Auntie waved Harry aside.

“I am sorry, Auntie. I-”

“No damage, Harriet.” When Harry grimaced, Aunt Hudson patted her on the buttocks as she had when Harry was a toddler. “Go and sit with your brother. Greg, will you join us, or are you going to continue to brood and be utterly tiresome?”

Aunt Hudson selected her favorite chaise longue and smiled as Harry handed her a cup of tea. “Now that you are all here, I must speak with you of a matter of importance. The beating of the bounds is always held the second week of June every year. That is nearly upon us. With your father so busy-”

Sherlock cleared his throat before saying, “My lady, this sounds like a matter of interest to your family. I would be glad to leave.”

“Nonsense.” She stretched forward to pat his right arm as if he were no older than Harry. “You shall still be with us by then, and you may be necessary to help me convince William that simply because Napoleon is being so beastly is no reason to cancel the beating of the bounds. It is too important to the shire to let a year pass without it. In addition, all the invitations to the ball that evening have gone out.”

“The same day?” Sherlock asked, his eyes widening.

John was glad for a chance to chuckle at Sherlock’s amazement for a change. “Tis a tradition in this shire that goes back before anyone can remember. Of course, it is much simpler now when most of the fields in the shire are enclosed. Years ago, people would have to walk nearly thirty miles during the day to make sure all the markers were in place to show where Watson land ended and the king’s began. Then they would dance through the night. Now, one only need to go about ten miles to traverse the bounds.”

“And still dance through the night?”

“Not until dawn, for we keep country hours here. Not the late hours they do in London.”

Sherlock lowered his eyes quickly when John mentioned London, and John wondered what Sherlock was trying to conceal. He would not ask, not when the others were gathered here to speak of the beating of the bounds. 

Greg made no effort to conceal his opinions. “This whole tradition is a farce. John is right, Auntie. The fields have been enclosed for years. What purpose is there in tramping around the countryside in the damp and rain? Let us have the ball alone and enjoy it for once.”

John put a hand on his arm. “Greg, the villagers look forward to this all year. Molly was telling me only a few weeks ago of how she was sending to Brighton for special fabric for her gown.”

Greg gulped so loudly John was afraid he’d swallowed his tongue. Again Greg stood and went to the window. Dropping to the window seat, he glowered at his hands, which he locked together between his knees.

John wanted to go to him and apologize. He’d not intended to discomfit Greg, but John had not thought that the mere mention of Molly’s name would agitate Greg so. Why did it, now that he was courting Miss Donovan? Molly had been heartsick when Greg stopped calling, so she hadn’t put an end to his visits. None of this made sense.

Harry bounced to her feet. “We cannot cancel the beating of the bounds this year. I promised Hugh Thomas that I would remember him at each of the boundary markers this year.”

“Gently, I hope.” John said. “I heard that some of the villagers last year tipped the youngsters upside down at every boundary marker to help them remember where each one is.”

“It’s better than when I was remembered.” Harry rubbed her backside. “Then we had to lean over each boundary stone and have its location imprinted with a stick.”

“It is a waste of time.” Greg grumbled.

“Is it?” John returned. “It would be good for everyone to remember where the paths lead through the woods and away from the coast. Just in case.”

“You are right,” Sherlock said quietly, then he smiled at Aunt Hudson. “And it would behoove me to discover what other hamlets are in this area. Some of them might be eager for a visit from a traveling merchant.”

Aunt Hudson chuckled. “I suspected you would come to that conclusion eventually, my boy. I am glad we all are in agreement, then.” She looked at Greg. “All of us, yes?”

Reluctantly he said, “Of course, Auntie.”

“Good. We are all in agreement.”

John nodded, but had no chance to speak as Aunt Hudson outlined her plans for how the beating of the bounds would be held. No one had a chance to speak, save her. Greg’s glower grew grimmer and grimmer. Harry’s smile broadened.

And Sherlock, who seemed to be enjoying the whole, leaned back on the settee, his left elbow balanced on the arm. His other hand rested on his knee. When John noted Sherlock’s fingers closing into a fist as Auntie spoke of following the old paths through the woods he stiffened. That slight motion was as unmistakable as a scream. Something about her words disturbed Sherlock. But what?

As soon as Aunt Hudson dismissed them, because she was expecting Reverend Hooper to call as he did each week at this time, John let Harry and Greg hurry him out of the room. Harry was eager to begin following Nana’s suggested plans for the beating of the bounds. Greg was just as eager to be gone. John heard him calling to a footman to have a carriage brought around even as he reached the stairs. He must intend to waste no more time in getting to the Donovan house.

“No wonder everyone expects an announcement.” Sherlock’s voice was laced with laughter as he walked with John along the hall toward the rear of the house. “He acts like the bridegroom who is eager to get through the ceremony to have his wedding night with his mate.”

“What a charming way to describe it!”

“I warned you I’m no gentleman.”

“Now.”

Sherlock smiled, but it was the coldest smile John had ever seen. “Oh that, you’re right. Mayhap someday I will be able to claim that title.”

John wanted to say _Again?_ , but instead asked, “What is disturbing you?”

“Making plans for next week, when I need to return to my work.”

“If you wish, I can have the Omegas in the village come here.”

“No.”

John choked at his brusque response. “But-”

“I am not turning your home into a shop.”

“Father would not mind.”

“Tis not him I am thinking about.”

“Auntie would be delighted to have even more callers, so she could hear the latest tidings.”

“Of that I am certain. However, it is you I am concerned about, John.”

“You need not concern yourself with me.”

Sherlock’s arm slipped around his waist, drawing him back into an alcove along the wall. “But I have no choice.”

“You have the choice of releasing me or of being sorry if you do not.”

He stepped closer, backing John further into the narrow space that was rumored to be a priest’s hole three hundred years ago. Mayhap it had been, because no one walking along the hall would see them until coming nearly upon them.

“You’re right about that,” Sherlock murmured, “but I was speaking of the lack of choice I have in keeping you out of my thoughts, John.”

“This is unseemly. You should-”

“Yes, I should.” His arm tightened around John’s waist, pulling him up against Sherlock’s chest. Even in the dim light, his eyes glowed like twin stars, teasing John to whisper a wish on that starlight and then letting him make it come true. “I am not Sebastian Moran,” Sherlock whispered. “You do not need to be frightened of me.”

“I am not frightened of Sebastian.”

“But you are afraid of marrying him and going to live with him and his father. Just the father and the son and you, the omega. Very, very cozy.”

John shuddered as Sherlock said the words he’d not dared to even think. “You do not know what you are talking about. You are a stranger here at Watson Hall.”

“After a fortnight at Watson Hall, I have heard many things, including the fact that Sir Albert was most anxious to marry you himself before your father told him that would never come to pass.”

John halted his efforts to escape, staring up at him. “Sir Albert? Mon-” He bit back the French oath. “Are you out of your mind? You should not heed silly gossip.”

“Even when both your aunt and your father let that fact slip into conversation?” He shook his head. “No, your father may have let it slip. Your aunt, I believe, intended for me to know that.”

“I - I -“ John didn’t know what he wanted to say, but he was certain that he wanted to deny Sherlock’s words. Sir Albert had asked for his hand? He didn’t understand. Sebastian had told him years ago that they would be mated when they were both of age. Or did he? Had Sebastian said instead that John would be living in Sir Albert’s magnificent house when he was grown?

Sherlock’s fingers brushed John’s cheek, and he looked up to see sympathy in his eyes. “I thought you knew,” he whispered.

“I wish I did not know now.” 

“You need not look so fearful. Your father was very emphatic in saying that you would not marry Sir Albert.” A slow smile eased along his lips. “On that, I agree with him completely.”

“Then, now that you have told me what you obviously felt you must, will you step aside?”

“Do you wish me to?” Sherlock’s fingers quested along John’s cheek to his ear. A single fingertip traced its curve, lingering behind it. His gentle caress sent a bolt from John’s skin to spiral deep within him.

The glory of his touch flowed through John. As if it had longings of its own, his hand rose to touch Sherlock’s face. His fingers tingled when he touched the rough skin. Nothing had ever been so wondrous - nothing! A voice in the back of his mind howled at him. The impropriety! How could something so beautiful be so disastrous? 

“You woo an Alpha to your side with a flash of your blue eyes and the promise of pleasure on your lips,” Sherlock continued in a low voice that resonated through him.

When Sherlock drew him closer, John’s gaze settled on his lips before rising along the firm line of his nose. He noticed, as he had not before, the amber sparks in the azure fire of Sherlock’s eyes.

“You are so winsome, so ready for the battles of the heart,” he whispered.

“Sherlock, I - “

“Tell me that you abhor my embrace, and I will be glad to release you and never touch you again. Tell me, but tell me truthfully.”

As John’s fingers combed through Sherlock’s dark curls, he knew he was silly to become part of this madness. He did not care, for he was lost in the enchantment Sherlock spun with his touch which lured John to make his fantasy of being in Sherlock’s arms, savoring his kiss, come true. Sherlock’s fingers played along John’s cheek, creating a melody he heard in his heart. As Sherlock’s mouth lowered toward his, John’s eyes closed in sweet surrender.

“John!”

He whirled to see his father behind Sherlock. His father’s face was long with his frown as he gripped John’s arm. John gasped when his father’s fingers bit into his arm, but William ignored the sound as he drew John away from Sherlock.

William’s voice was clipped. “I did not expect this.”

John whispered, “Neither did I.” He did not expect that this emptiness would ache in him when he had been so close to sampling Sherlock’s kiss and then been denied it.

William glared at John, but his words were aimed at Sherlock. “I demand that you give me your word, on your honor, that you will not attempt to kiss my son again.”

“You have my word as a peddler,” Sherlock answered quietly.

John glanced at him. He must be wrong. He could not have heard a mirthful undertone in Sherlock’s words. As he faced his father, he feared his yearning for a single kiss had possessed him like a curse. Never did he think anything through to its conclusion. If he had paused to think, he would have known that the cost of this pleasure was far too high.

William snapped, “And I trust I need not remind you, John, of how you should behave.”

“I shall endeavor never to forget what I should do.” His strained voice startled him as much as it must have his father whose eyes grew round in surprise. John wanted to retract his cold words, but it was too late.

“Good.” William released him, tugging nervously at his waistcoat. “I do not have time to make sure you have a watchdog every minute.”

“What has happened?” John asked. For the first time, he noticed the scent of horseflesh and salt on his father. His clothes were not wrinkled from having worked hard at his desk, but from riding for hours.

“I was called away with the tidings of a confirmed sighting of French soldiers on the shore not far east of the village.”

“Father, we have heard that rumor dozens of times before.”

“This was not a rumor.”

Sherlock asked quietly, “How do you know?”

William frowned at him, but said, “Because one of the soldiers was captured. Now, at long last, we shall learn of everything they have planned.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks again to [Nymeria578](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Nymeria578/pseuds/Nymeria578) for putting up with my crazy RL and being there to point out my silly mistakes. Any mistakes you find are all mine.

The morning mist refused to acknowledge the sunrise. Gray twilight clung to the ground, leaving everything damp and chilled, even though the sun had come up out of the sea more than an hour ago.

John’s shoulders shifted under his coat. Once the mist drifted back out to the sea, the day would grow warm, but, for now, he needed the coat’s warmth. He stood on the front steps of Watson Hall and watched the people gathered in what had been the inner bailey when the hall had been called a castle. There must be more than three-score villagers and residents of the shire in the courtyard, but it was preternaturally silent.

Although almost a week had passed since the capture of the French soldier, a sensation of disbelief still gripped the village. Rumors had skulked around the village for months about the possibility of an invasion, but this reality sent waves of fear, as savage as a winter storm tossing the ocean upon the strand, through every resident.

“Have they convinced him to say anything?”

Hearing the question he knew was not directed to him, he turned to see Harry speaking to Sherlock. “Not that anyone has said,” Sherlock answered. His face was somber as he looked across to the gate, where more people were wandering into the courtyard. 

“If he has not revealed anything by now-” John said, “it seems there is little reason to believe he will anytime soon.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he walked over to John. Because John stood on the steps, he had to look down to meet Sherlock’s gaze. Sherlock’s attempt to smile froze into an uncomfortable grimace when he answered, “It is clear that you have never had to endure a single hour in a cell, eager to taste the sweet flavors of freedom again.”

“You speak as if you have had the experience of being in prison.”

“I speak as a man who has come to like the breeze on his face and the sun highlighting his path.” He rubbed his right shoulder and grimaced again.

“You are so anxious to get back to your work?”

“Don’t think me ungrateful for your family’s hospitality, but it is the life I chose.”

John smiled, though it took all his strength. It had been almost a month since Sherlock had saved him from the smugglers. In that time, the smugglers had remained out of sight, sneaking about to do their dirty tasks, and Sherlock had sneaked into his thoughts. John was no more successful in banishing Sherlock from his mind than Father had been at stopping the owls. 

Harry leaned toward them. “I hope the authorities do not come to collect that Frog while we are out beating the bounds.”

“I had guessed they would be here as soon as word reached them.” John frowned. “How long can it take for a message to reach Dover and a detachment to arrive in the village?”

“Obviously at least this long.” Sherlock chuckled. “I suspect some of the officers have been lured to London to rid themselves of the boredom of being in garrison. If the commander of the garrison is not there, no one may be willing to make a decision.”

“About retrieving an enemy prisoner? What can there be to decide? Mayhap they are all witless.”

Before Sherlock could reply, Harry snapped, “I know you despise the idea of me joining the army, John, but you do not need to disparage them like this.”

“I was not-” He sighed as she stomped away. Looking at Sherlock, he sighed again.

“She is young.” Sherlock said quietly.

“And I fear she will not get any older if she becomes a soldier.” John put a hand on Sherlock’s arm. “Sherlock, she respects you. If you were to speak to her of being more sensible, mayhap she would listen.”

Sherlock put his hand over John’s, out of view of the others. “When an Alpha wants something so much, no one can talk them out of it.”

“She’s only a child.”

“I know, but I’m not only a child.”

John stared into his eyes as Sherlock lifted his hand. Sherlock’s fingers slipped beneath the cuff of John’s coat to stroke his wrist before gliding up along his shoulder. The morning no longer seemed chilly as he closed his eyes, wanting to relish this pleasure which he craved in his dreams … and when he woke.

When Sherlock whispered his name, John opened his eyes to find that Sherlock had climbed the narrow steps to the one just below him. Again he had to look up into Sherlock’s eyes. As Sherlock’s fingers curved down over John’s shoulder to inch closer, the day’s mist vanished and he was caught up in the golden light sparkling in his eyes.

Suddenly Sherlock stepped away. 

“John! Isn’t it a grand morning?” Aunt Hudson waved to him from the pony cart that was rolling to a stop in front of the house.

John glanced at Sherlock, knowing he must have heard the cart approaching while John had been lost in his spellbinding touch. He wanted to say something, anything, to keep this moment from ending, but as Sherlock turned to speak with Harry who bounced up the steps, John knew the magic had already ended.

Again the day was gray and damp and clammy. Pulling his coat more tightly around him, he walked down the steps. John realized that more than a dozen of the usual leaders were missing. They must be inside with Father in his office on the ground floor of the Hall, discussing why the authorities had not come to get the prisoner.

Now that Auntie had arrived, the beating of the bounds could begin. In short order, Harry led the way out of the gate, as if she were the baron, instead of younger child.

John lingered behind, hoping to see which group Sherlock was leaving with. They would not be able to be alone, but John would enjoy the chance to walk with him.

Molly rushed up and gave John a big hug. “It is finished,” she said with a wide grin.

“The dress for tonight?”

She nodded. “It is the most perfect gown ever made. I cannot wait to dance in it.” Without pausing, she asked, “Where is that peddler I have heard so much about?”

John looked around. Where was Sherlock? He had been here only moments ago. Trying to keep his sigh silent, he guessed Sherlock had left while John was greeting Molly. “I am sure you will have a chance to see him somewhere along the bounds this morning.”

He let his friend’s chatter surround him as they walked out the gate and turned toward the shore, where the first marker was set on the very edge of the strand.

The sun began to pierce the mist, jeweling the landscape as if dozens of fairies had sprinkled their dust upon the grass and the stone walls. The markers themselves became dull as the dampness was rubbed away when the children beating the bounds for the first time tried to read the inscriptions. The lettering had almost disappeared beneath the assault of the sea wind and rain through the years. Laughter marked each time a child was remembered at the markers with a swat on the backside or by being held upside down while reciting the landmarks that lead to this stone.

What had been a cluster of people at the beginning thinned as the day wore on and the miles wore off the determination to walk the full length of the bounds. Some lagged behind, while others rushed ahead to be done quickly so they could get ready for the evening’s entertainments at Watson Hall.

John guessed that he and Molly were somewhere nearer to the leaders than those who had dropped their pace to a stroll, because they matched their steps to the pace of Molly’s words, which showed no sign of slowing down until he had chanced to mention Greg.

“He did not choose to take part in the beating of the bounds,” John said.

“I guessed that when Harry lead the way.” Molly gazed along the path that lead steeply up the next hill and toward the wood that sheltered it from the sea. 

“He never mentioned anything about not coming.” John kicked a pebble ahead of him. “I am sure he will be at the ball tonight.”

“Your father would not be pleased if he were not.”

He grimaced. “Father will not be pleased that Greg is not here today. He expects all of us to take our duties as seriously as he does his.” Glancing at his friend, he said, “I am sorry, Molly. I know you hoped to see him today.”

“Do not fret on my behalf.” Molly smiled gently. “It would be worse if Greg pretended to feel something he does not.”

“He does not seem to believe that. He scurries away like a guilty child whenever your name is mentioned.”

Molly stopped by a stone wall that wove an uneven path across the hillside as if it were a piece of thread abandoned by a playful kitten. “He does?”

John nodded. “Did he do something to hurt you?”

“Other than deciding to call on Miss Donovan instead, no. He always has been the epitome of kindness.” She took his hand and squeezed it. “Please stop fretting over this. Greg was kind to give me a look-in as he did. I realize we have long been friends, but I realize, too, that it would have been difficult because of the differences in his rank and mine. He is nephew to a baron, and I am a minister’s daughter.”

John ran his hand along the uneven stones of the wall. Glad that most of those beating the bounds were either far ahead or far behind them, he tried to think of something to say to refute Molly’s words. Three was nothing, and, if a minister’s daughter and baron’s nephew were not an acceptable match, how much worse was it that John thought constantly about Sherlock?

“Oh dear.” Molly murmured.

“Oh, dear what?” He did not want his friend guessing the course of his thoughts. Mayhap, for the first time, he understood why Molly had not confided in him about the state of her heart. Such emotions were too fragile - and too doomed - to share.

“I have down-pinned you when I know you enjoy this day.”

John squeezed her hand. “I am enjoying this day, and I am glad you are coming to the ball tonight. We shall have a grand time.”

“We will, won’t we?”

He whirled at the voice that was so much deeper than Molly’s. Unable to halt the shudders that raced down his back, he forced a smile for Sebastian Moran. Beside John, Molly tensed. His bosom-bow loathed Sebastian and made no secret of it.

“I did not know you were joining us for the beating of the bounds,” John said when the silence seemed to grow painful. Not even the chirps of the birds and the buzz of insects awakening as the sun grew stronger could ease it.

“It is a skimble-skamble thing.” Sebastian fingered the lapels of his coat, and his nose wrinkled as he brushed away some leaves and twigs from its fine blue wool.

“Speak plainly,” Molly urged. “We use simple words here, not the silly language of Town.”

He scowled at her, but Molly did not look away. Why should she fear him? He would not deign to marry a mere minister’s daughter, for he had bragged to everyone - so John had heard - that he would gain more prestige for the Moran family by marrying well. John wished Sebastian would take himself to Town. He was a well-favored man with a fair fortune coming his way. Some Omegas there might be eager enough, especially at this late point in the Season, to buckle themselves to him. Then he would be out of John's life, and he could do… John wasn't sure what he wanted to do.

Yes, he was. He wanted to be with Sherlock, where they would not be interrupted, so that he might know -just once- what it was like to be in Sherlock's strong arms as he kissed him.

“John!” Sebastian's irritatingly impatient voice tore into John's fantasy shredding it.

“Yes?”

Sebastian recoiled from John's sharp tone, and Molly put her hands to her lips to conceal a giggle. Sebastian included Molly in his scowl as he said, “You do not need to snap at me like an old tough. “

“If you keep speaking with the Town polish, Sebastian,” Molly interjected, “no one bearing the bounds will be able to understand you.”

“Anyone with a bit of wit about them shall.”

“I stand corrected.” She linked her arm through John's. “Perhaps you and I should go to London next Season.”

“The pair of us in Town for the Season?” John laughed. “I daresay one of us would make a _faux pas_ before the first hour had passed.”

“But what wondrous matches we would make.” Molly flung out her hand, nearly striking Sebastian who backed away hastily. “I think a marquess for you and an earl for me. We would not have to settle for anything less than lord or lady.”

“Must you prattle endlessly like this?” Sebastian demanded.

“Not always.”

Sebastian again stared at Molly. When she did not continue along the narrow path, he scowled. John almost laughed when his friend frowned back. He thought that Sebastian would have learned years ago that he could not intimidate Molly Hooper. They had all grown up together, and Molly knew him for the dastardly bully that he was.

Ignoring their previous conversation, Sebastian said to John, “Of course, I came to the beating of the bounds. It is important that the ton recall their duties.”

“The _ton_?” Molly laughed. “Are you about to journey to London for a Season, Sebastian? Mayhap you can find a destitute duke's Omega who is desperate to marry you.”

“I do not need to go to London to find a mate.”

John swallowed his sigh, while Molly fired him an apologetic smile. Trying again to smile, he said, “I did not see you at Watson Hall.”

“I got a bit of a late start. I cut across the fields to catch up with you.”

“You needn't have bothered.”

“‘Twas no bother. I wanted to be certain I could spend today with you.”

“Why?”

“Because it is a day we shall both want to remember the rest of our lives.”

John exchanged another glance with his friend. Molly's eyes were wide with a dismay that echoed the feeling that raced through John. “Why?” He asked again.

“Because tonight, when you and I are dancing together and being toasted, we – “ 

Sebastian’s name was shouted again from the top of the hill. A man was gesturing to him. When John squinted and put his hand to his forehead to shade his eyes, he still was unsure who stood up there. He could not imagine who wanted to see Sebastian, but John was grateful that he was called away. Nodding in response to his mumbled excuse, John released the sigh he had been holding.

“How do you bear him?” Molly asked.

John stared at the friend whose words echoed so closely the question Sherlock had asked him the day after he arrived at Watson Hall. His answer was the same. “Because I must.”

“Your father is a reasonable man. I cannot believe that, if you ask him to reconsider, he would force you to marry that uncouth cur.”

He smiled. “You are quite blunt about your opinions of him.”

“As you should be. Lord Watson should not be considering a match for you with Sebastian.”

“I don’t think he is any longer.”

“No? Papa told me that Sir Albert came to speak to him about officiating at the ceremony.”

“What?” He dropped to sit on the wall.

“Oh, maybe I should not have said anything.”

John shook his head. “No, it’s alright. I would have learned about it sooner or later.”

“I thought you understood that was what that dolt Sebastian was babbling about.”

“Babbling about?” Coldness surrounded him in a cloud of horror. “He thinks we are going to be toasted tonight, when our betrothal is announced.” He rose. “Excuse me, Molly. I have to return to Watson Hall and speak with Father posthaste.”

“Do you want me to go with you?”

He started to say yes, then shook his head. “If Sebastian sees you, he may not guess that I have skipped the rest of the beating of the bounds. Then he won’t come looking for me.”

“I will make sure he sees me at the crest of every hill and just before I turn every corner.”

John gave her a quick hug. “Thank you so much.”

“Good luck. I’ll be praying that your father will heed your pleas.”

“I will, too.” Gathering himself, John climbed over the wall.

He waved to Molly before hurrying across the field. He breathed a sigh of relief when he reached the trees on the far side of the field. Now there was no chance that Sebastian would see him.

He held his arms close to keep them from being snatched by the briars growing under the trees. This must be Mr. Wilson’s copse. He did little to maintain his land, preferring to spend his time at the inn near Mr. Jensen’s warehouse. His heart slowed its frantic pounding as he rushed through the wood. The shadows were like furtive breaths of cold are, but he shrugged them off. Nothing could be icier than his heart at the thought of mating Sebastian Moran. Suddenly, John’s hand was grasped. With a cry, he tried to pull away. He could not let Sebastian find him here alone. John was not sure what Sebastian would do in his determination to force him to be his mate.

A familiar laugh halted his panic. John looked up into Sherlock’s sparkling eyes. When Sherlock motioned for John to continue among the trees with him, he smiled.

Sherlock did not release his hand, and John did not draw it away. Sometime in the last week, John had accepted that he was as much of an air-dreamer as Harry, but, for this moment, when the mist still jeweled the tops of the trees, he wanted to delight in this simple, but forbidden, pleasure of Sherlock’s fingers enclosing his.

Sherlock smiled when John knelt to look at some yellow blossoms peeking from beneath last autumn’s fallen leaves. He squatted next to him. “Is this why you came into the woods, John? To admire flowers?” Sherlock held out his hand.

“Did you consider that I simply wanted to catch my breath after the long walk? Besides, that is a marigold. Cook uses them to brighten up our meals. They’re good for healing small cuts too.”

“I can understand that, for you make me catch my breath.”

John stared at Sherlock’s hand, but did not put his fingers on it as he rose. Molly’s commonsensical comments echoed through his head. Why was it so easy to accept that there could be nothing between them when he was not nearby? Standing close to Sherlock like this, John forgot the obligations of rank. All he wanted was to hear his laugh and discover the flavor of his lips.

Sherlock picked one of the blossoms. As he stood, he handed it to John. He placed the flower in his button hole.

“Thank you.” He whispered.

“I did the flower no favor.”

“By plucking it?”

“By letting you place in so close to your face, for its beauty dims.”

Even though he wanted to linger, he said, “Thank you for the flower and the compliment, Sherlock.”

“But?”

“But I must hurry back to Watson Hall.”

“Is that where you are hying to like a frightened rabbit seeking its hole in a hedgerow? When I saw you at a near run across the field – “

“Did anyone else see me?”

He frowned. “Are you skulking away from someone?” He held up his hands. “No, let me guess. Did you encounter the inimitable Sebastian Moran?”

John wanted to pour out the truth to him, but he was afraid of what else might flow from his heart when he opened it to reveal his terror at the idea of mating a man he knew he could never love. “Sherlock, you still ask far too many questions.”

“And you still seldom answer any of them.” He chuckled as he looked around. “I will know these woods intimately by the time we are done with this tramp through them.”

“You are in excellent spirits,” John said, startled by how easily Sherlock accepted that he no longer wished to speak about the previous subject.

“Why not? The sun is out and so am I.” Sherlock’s fingers rose to brush John’s fringe back off his face. “And I am here with a man who makes me forget how many miles we will be walking in a circle today.”

Edging away a step before he gave in to the temptation to move closer to Sherlock, John walked toward an abandoned stone wall that was nearly as tall as his shoulder. It was pitted from rain and wind.

“Now where will you run to, John?” Sherlock asked from behind him.

John glanced back at him, then turned to his left. If he recalled correctly, this wall did not run far in this direction. Some said it had been raised to keep ancient raiders out of a castle that had otherwise disappeared from the downs. Others whispered that the ancients had built it to hold in the dark gods who lived in the forest. He did not believe either. He suspected it was the forgotten curtain wall that had once been part of the larger defenses of Watson Hall.

When he reached its end, he stared at an impenetrable barricade of briars that reached almost as high as the wall. He did not remember this from the last time he have been through this greenwood; then he realized that the last time had been more than five years ago. With Mr. Wilson’s neglect of his land, the thickets were reclaiming it. 

“Shall you storm back in the other direction or plow straight through?” Sherlock leaned against the stone wall and smiled at him. 

“I have not yet decided.”

“Your errand must be one of great urgency if you are even considering going through that.” He fingered the fabric of John’s sleeve. “You shall quite ruin your handsome jacket.”

“As you have your shoes?” John pointed to Sherlock’s footwear which was marked by drying salt stains. “Did you walk out into the sea to begin the beating of the bounds?”

“Harry told me there is a legend that the first marker is now hidden beneath the waves a few feet off shore.”

John laughed. “So you are the one they convinced this year to wade out and look for a marker that never existed?”

“I did not go far. Your younger sister is not adept at keeping a somber expression while playing a prank.”

“If you were with her, you should be miles from here by now.”

“I thought to see how you were faring, John.”

“I am doing fine.” He started to walk back along the wall, but Sherlock stepped in front of him, blocking his way. “Sherlock, I have no time for this.”

“For someone who avers that he is doing well, you seem to be frightfully perturbed.” He laughed again and backed John toward the wall. When John gasped as he bumped into it, he said, “You must not be thinking clearly if you do not have time for this.” His fingers brushed John’s cheek.

John gasped again, this time in delight at the sweetness flowing through him. He found himself gazing up into Sherlock’s eyes, captured like a rabbit by a sly fox. John’s eyes closed as he leaned toward him, longing to know the fiery power of the passion ablaze in his eyes. When Sherlock did not lower his mouth John’s, his hands paused as he was lifting them to be wrapped around Sherlock’s shoulders.

“Is something wrong?” he whispered. Yes! He could not rid himself of this longing he must ignore.

Instead of replying, Sherlock took John’s shoulders and pressed him against the wall. John stared at him, astonished at his rough action. He had always treated him with gentleness. Not like Sebastian, who had no patience for John’s questions.

Lightning seared him when Sherlock’s gazed explored his face with tender yearning. When his hands caressed his shoulders, outlining their curves with warmth, he started to pull away. But Sherlock’s hands tightened.

“No!” he cried.

“No?” Sherlock repeated with an arching of his eyebrows? His expression bespoke his disbelief louder than a single word.

“I promised Father to – “

“To recall how you should behave, and you have been behaving quite well, serving his interests well, as an Omega should, in the beating of the bounds.” Sherlock gave him a wry grin. “ _I_ promised not to attempt to kiss you.”

“But – “

“So I shall not attempt it. I shall do it.”

He swept John up against him as he captured his lips. All John’s fantasies of this moment vanished, weak shadows compared to this glory. The tip of Sherlock’s tongue brushed his lips, sending quivers of sensation to the very tips of his toes.

As close as they were standing, John was unsure if the shivers were only his or if Sherlock’s desire was as uncontrollable. He should push him away, but John slid his hands along the strong muscles of Sherlock’s arms.

Sherlock enfolded John to him as his lips found his again. Everything he wanted was in Sherlock’s kiss, for it offered him as much rapture as it demanded. His fingers stroked John’s back, sending tingles twisting along his spine. As John’s hand curved along his nape, Sherlock’s thick hair caressed it.

Sherlock sighed when John suddenly pushed himself out of his arms. An expression stole the last glitter of delight from his eyes, which closed again when Sherlock bent to kiss his cheek. John’s fingers clenched at his sides, warning Sherlock of how hard he was fighting his craving – _their craving_. How he would love to wrap himself around his sensual man, but to do so would bring John more sorrow. He could not forget that he would soon be leaving this village.

Today had proven to him that he must go soon. He had managed to keep up with the others on the beating of the bounds and had taken note of several places he must revisit soon. His wagon was fixed, and his wares awaited his finding a buyer for them as he continued on his journey through Kent. The message to Jensen was not the only one he had to deliver, so he should not linger a day longer.

Yet… he grasped John’s arms and tugged him to his chest again. John’s chest brushed against him with his swift breaths as he recaptured his lips. Boldly, hungering for his every intriguing flavor, his tongue probed his mouth. John’s fingers gripped his sleeves, then slipped up through his hair. Sherlock teased his tongue to caress his own, and John swayed against him, offering him an invitation to the rapture that would not be interrupted in the green bower. 

When John’s breath grew ragged, Sherlock released him reluctantly. He was unsure how much longer he could kiss John before his restraint, which had never been tested like this, failed. He resisted looking into John’s eyes, but that was a mistake, for he found himself staring at his kiss-softened lips. The anguished need to give in to this craving was nearly intolerable.

He stepped back a single step, then another. Pointing to the right, he said, “I would suggest that, if you are determined to get to Watson Hall, you should go that way, John. It will lead you away from where I saw Sebastian Moran stopping every group of walkers to demand if they had seen you.”

“Sherlock…?” He touched Sherlock’s cheek in the lightest caress.

Sherlock was not sure he had the strength to step away again, but he did. He would be gone soon. He could not make a jumble of John’s life by surrendering to this ecstasy. Without another word, he turned and walked away. 

Nothing in his life would ever be so difficult.

Except leaving him for good.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a HUGE thank you to [Nymeria578](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Nymeria578/pseuds/Nymeria578). She puts up with all my personal drama while directing me in how to not make stupid mistakes, and above all, is always a kind and supportive friend.

The ballroom shimmered with candlelight. Sherlock knew a peddler was as out of place here as a Cyprian taking tea with their lover’s mate. The baron’s guests, each of them dressed with an elegance that made his road-worn clothes look even more threadbare, glanced at him with curiosity as he walked through the magnificent room which sparkled with crystal and gilt.

He took a glass of some tepid lemonade, wishing that Watson would relent on this one thing about the smugglers and serve a decent glass of champagne tonight. Listening to the conversation sifting through the music, he took note of every word but heard nothing unusual. Somehow Sherlock had forgotten, for which he was grateful, how much time people could spend talking about nothing.

He was on the far side of the ballroom when he heard a familiar laugh from near the doorway. It was not loud or high-pitched, but it cut through the conversation to pierce his thoughts.

Edging around the floor on which no one was dancing, as all waited for their host to lead off the first dance, he stared, unable to halt himself. In the weeks he had been here, he had thought he had admired John’s golden hair and slim features from every possible angle and had become accustomed to his handsomeness. Today, near the old stone wall, he had touched the lilt of John’s cheekbones and sampled the medley of delights on his lips. Mayhap there had been no music then, but he had heard it as surely as he did now.

He was sadly mistaken to think he could find nothing new about John to draw his attention. When Sherlock saw him in a white jacket with a waistcoat only a shade darker than the midday sky drawing his gaze to his alluring curves, it was if he was seeing John for the first time. When he laughed again as he spoke with his father, the sound went right to Sherlock’s heart to swirl about him like the sweetest melody.

Something must have alerted John to his stare. Could it be that he was no more unaware of him than Sherlock was of John? What should have been a stolen kiss to ease their curiosity had instead drawn them even closer together. 

As John’s head turned toward him, Sherlock would have sworn someone had crept up behind him and forced the very breath out of him. He could barely think as he was enveloped in John’s soft gaze. The thought that filtered into his mind was of watching those eyes close as he offered up his lips to him. How much more he wanted now!

John’s father must have spoken to him because he flinched and looked back at the baron.

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath, wondering how long it had been since he last remembered to breathe. His feet wanted to send him lurching toward John, but he turned and walked toward the back of the grand room. When his name was called, he struggled to smile.

“Good evening, my lady,” he said, bowing over Lady Hudson’s hand which was nearly stuck into his face. He wondered how close he had come while lost in his thoughts, to walking right over her. “You look lovely this evening.”

She pulled her silvery shawl more tightly over her dark gown. “Don’t waste your flummery on me, young man, when it is quite clear by your expression that you have your mind on someone else, much younger and more attractive to a lad like you, I would think. Are you ready to dance?”

“After this day’s exercise, I am more fatigued than anything else.”

“Why are you lathering me with this falsehood?” Her face fell into a frown. “I thought you a better man than that.”

He should have known better than to engage the Lady in a battle of words when his thoughts were so scattered. “I am a man who is not where he belongs.”

“You do look like a shab-rag among these fine peacocks.” She tapped his arm with her feathered fan. “You are excused while you change into something more appropriate.”

“This is the best I have, my lady.”

Her nose wrinkled as she stared at his rumpled shirt and waistcoat and breeches, all of which showed the wear from his journey about the bounds. “We must rectify that with all due haste.”

“Why?”

“You cannot appear at functions at Watson Hall looking like a petitioner.”

He smiled. “My lady, despite the kindness offered by you, your nephew, and his family, I must remind you that I am a petitioner here.”

“You are _a guest_ here, and no guest of mine appears at the beating of the bounds ball dressed like a laborer.”

“I stand corrected.” He bowed to her again.

“And?”

Not certain as to what she wanted him to say, he asked, “And, my lady?”

“You are not without some graces, young man. I thought you would recognize when a lady wishes to dance.”

“Would you do me the honor, my lady?” he asked, resisting his inclination to look over at John to discover if _he_ would be interested in partnering with him on the dance floor. With him, Sherlock would not be interesting in dancing a country reel, but a waltz, which he knew would be considered scandalous here in daisyville.

“I thought you would never ask.” Lady Hudson tapped his arm again with her fan as she slipped a hand through his arm.

Even though she had lambasted him for his low attire, Lady Hudson’s stance as they walked together to the middle of the room dared anyone to so much as whisper about her escort. The rest of her family, save for young Harry, were waiting for them.

He was astonished to see John partnered by his father, then realized he had not seen Moran arrive. “Where is John’s eager _beau_?”

“If you speak of Sebastian, he will not be joining us tonight,” Lady Hudson said. “He apparently had the misfortune to walk through some sort of greenery today that caused him to develop the most excruciating rash.”

Sherlock laughed, but Lady Hudson slapped him again on the arm with her fan.

It is not right that one man should laugh at another’s misfortune.” Her lips twitched. “Or for one’s _faux pas_ that leads one to making another.”

“I shall endeavor, my lady, not to lead you into less than exemplary behavior.”

“I believe I have learned enough over the years to find my way on my own.” She turned to greet Greg and his partner.

The rather sour faced brunette facing Greg must be Miss Donovan, Sherlock decided. No one had a chance to introduce him to her, as the orchestra began to play the music for the first dance.

Quickly he discovered that the pattern of the dance was a parody of their lives. Each time he neared John and it seemed Sherlock was about to take his hand as he swirled him through the next steps, others came between them, sending them apart once more. He was careful to keep a smile on his face because Lady Hudson was not the only one watching him closely.

When the dance ended, he edged back as Harry offered to stand up with her aunt. No one spoke to him as he made his way through the crowd and out onto the terrace. 

The fresh air was almost as intoxicating as John’s kisses. With a curse, he sat on a bench at the far end of the terrace. He gazed up at the moon that was draped with the last wisps of the lingering mist. How many nights had he spent outside or in some rough byre staring up at this moon and watching the stars pop out in the vast arc of the sky? How many more would he do that?

“I thought you might like this.”

His head jerked up at John’s voice. Sherlock’s smile became ironic when he saw the glass John held out. If he were to drink, he would prefer it be of John’s lips, not this overly sweet lemonade.

Standing, he took the glass and sipped. His eyes widened. “That is a fine burgundy.”

“You know that Father keeps a few bottles deep in the cellar and brings them out for special occasions.”

“Such as the announcement of his son’s betrothal.”

John smiled. “Mayhap, but that will not be announced tonight.”

“Your aunt mentioned Moran’s malady.”

“He should know better than to wander about, not watching where he is going.”

“His thoughts may all have been of you.”

John’s smile vanished. “Don’t even jest about such things.”

“Shall we speak of other things then?” He took an appreciative sip.

“Yes. Are you enjoying yourself?”

“It shall be a long time before I again have the opportunity to attend a ball at a baron’s country seat.” Sherlock smiled as he leaned back against the stone railing at the edge of the terrace. “I must own to being surprised that these folks have so much energy for dancing after spending the day beating the bounds.”

“Few of them walked the whole distance as you did.”

“And you.”

“I did not go the full distance.”

“Close enough.”

John nodded. “Which is one of the reasons I have come out here, so my yawns would not seem so rude.”

“One of the reasons?” Sherlock took John’s hand and drew him closer. When his fingers curved along John’s cheek, he whispered, “What is the other reason?”

“I’ve told you over and over, you ask too many questions, Sherlock.” His voice softened as Sherlock’s hand drifted along his neck to linger on his shoulder.

“Do I?”

His laugh vanished into Sherlock’s mouth as he pulled John into his arms. Sherlock had tried to persuade himself that this intoxicating pleasure had been only his imagination, honed by arms that had been empty too long. He had been wrong. As his mouth coursed along John’s neck, John trembled. His soft gasp of Sherlock’s name caressed his ear and ricocheted within him, setting his every nerve afire. 

John’s yelp turned that pleasure to agony. Pulling back, Sherlock scowled as Greg grasped John’s arm and tugged him away.

“John!” Greg snarled. “Did you take a knock in the cradle? What if Sebastian learned of this?”

John shook of his hand. Maybe he had taken a knock in the cradle, but he did not care a rap what Sebastian Moran thought. He was about to say that, then saw a shadowed form in the doorway to the ballroom. Sally Donovan! The young woman had earned a reputation as the worst prattle-box in the shire.

“Greg, I think it would be best if we were to discuss this another time.” He glanced past him, and Greg looked over his shoulder.

Instead of the smile John had expected when Greg realized Sally was waiting anxiously for him, a frown flitted across her cousin’s face. “Mayhap you are right.” Greg’s voice lowered. “I trust you will refrain from such behavior until we have a chance to speak of this.”

“Greg, you are not my father.”

“If Uncle would – “ He clamped his lips closed.

“If Uncle would what?”

“Another time.” Greg turned and strode back to Miss Donovan.

“Now that’s most peculiar.” Sherlock said quietly.

John agreed as she watched his cousin motion for Miss Donovan to join them on the terrace. He’d thought Greg would offer his arm, as would be befitting a gentleman who had been calling so regularly on a young omega. Instead, he treated her with the polite indifference of a brother.

“If I didn’t know better,” Sherlock continued, amusement creeping into his voice. “I would say the Watson blood runs cold.”

John was glad the shadows hid the blush that must match the heat on his cheeks. Father had warned him to guard his behavior with Sherlock. He should have heeded him, but instead had let his longings bring him into Sherlock’s arms again.

Before he had a chance to greet Miss Donovan, Harry burst out of the darkness, skidding to a halt. She almost tripped over an uneven stone, but Sherlock caught her before she could fall face-first onto the terrace.

John put a hand on Sherlock’s arm as he grimaced. He shook it off and massaged his right shoulder.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “Blasted arm.”

John understood what Sherlock could not say in the other’s hearing. His weak shoulder frustrated him.

“You should not be running about like that.” Miss Donovan spoke the scold as if she were Harry’s sister. “Why, I just heard the other day that Mrs. James rose from her sickbed and – “

Firing Miss Donovan a fearsome scowl, Harry interjected, “John! Oh, good! Greg, you and Sherlock are here too.” She panted as she straightened her clothes. “You will not believe what I just heard.”

“The French have agreed to peace?” asked Greg eagerly.

“Peace!” Miss Donovan gasped. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful to have peace? I vow I cannot recall the last time anyone spoke of anything but that war and the need to put an end to it. If people would just have good sense and – “

Greg’s hand on her arm silenced her as he asked again, “Have the French agreed to peace?”

Harry gave him a withering frown. “You might as well guessed that the sun was just seen rising on the moon. The French prisoner has escaped.”

“What!” John exclaimed.

“You heard me. He is gone.”

Miss Donovan murmured, “Oh, dear. Oh, dear.”

“How did it happen?” John asked.

She shrugged. “No one seems to know. Mr. Jensen was guarding him today, and he said nothing seemed amiss. The prisoner apparently made no sound all afternoon, but he rarely said much in English.”

“Oh, dear.” Miss Donovan said again.

John looked at Sherlock, who was showing an odd lack of curiosity.

He stood and wiped his hands, which had been resting on the stone wall. “Mayhap Mr. Jensen fell asleep,” Sherlock said, looking in the direction of the village, “and the prisoner took advantage of that.”

“Oh, dear,” Miss Donovan continued.

Again Harry shrugged, but her mouth was set in a straight line. “It’s possible. That accursed Frog bunched up some pillows on his cot to make it look as if he were asleep. Now he has run back to his comrades, and he will be able to tell them how poorly prepared we are.”

“His comrades?” Sherlock lost his nonchalance. “What makes you think his comrades are still nearby?”

“Oh, dear. Oh, dear.” Miss Donovan’s voice was rising to near hysteria.

Harry ignored her dismay. “If they aren’t nearby to rescue him, he must be looking for a place to hide. I need to tell Father that, so he can have the outbuildings secured. If – “

A roar of voices came from the ballroom. John looked past his family to see that the dancing had halted. The Omegas still stood in the middle of the floor, but the Alphas had come together to huddle in anxious conversation. Word of the escape must have reached the dancers. The orchestra might as well put away their instruments. No one would return to dancing tonight.

Harry rushed inside, not wanting to miss any of the excitement.

Greg started to follow with Miss Donovan in tow, still bemoaning her apprehension, then turned and glanced at John. He did not speak, but there was no need.

“I bid you good evening, John,” Sherlock said when he hesitated.

Taking John’s hand, Sherlock bowed over it as gracefully as any of the gentlemen in the ballroom, again bringing forth the questions John wished would remain silent in his head. Who was Sherlock Holmes? No peddler he’d ever encountered had had manners so polished or possessed such an obvious level of education. He might be a peddler now, but John doubted Sherlock had been born to that life.

What had he done that had been so heinous that he was banished from the Polite World?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be adding tags with the next chapter as things start to ramp up. Keep an eye out for things that might trigger.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To [Nymeria578](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Nymeria578/pseuds/Nymeria578),
> 
> You're a wonderful, beautiful, fantastic person. Thank you for everything you do!!
> 
> Love,   
> me

“Master John?”

At his maid’s voice, John looked up from the novel he’d just started. Elsa stood in the bedroom doorway, no smile on her wrinkled face. Before Elsa had become his maid, she’d worked in the nursery. John could no more imagine Watson Hall without Elsa than without the sea wind surging through its open windows.

“Can whatever it is wait a few minutes?” He had been intrigued with this story since the first sentence, and he was only a page from the end of the fourth chapter. 

“No, it cannot!”

John closed the book when he heard Auntie’s voice from behind Elsa. It was clear he would not be reaching the end of the chapter now. He recognized that tone. Auntie had something she considered very important on her mind.

He stood. Motioning for Auntie to come in, he bit his lip when she dismissed Elsa. What had happened now?

“Did they recapture the French prisoner?” he asked.

Auntie scowled, then said, “I have no idea, but I thought you should know that he is leaving.”

“Leaving?” John pressed a hand to his heart. “Who? Harry?”

Aunt Hudson frowned. “Don’t be absurd, child. Harriet will not go off to join the army while there is breath between my old bones.”

“But you said – “

“Check your ears, child. I said _he_ is leaving. Sherlock.”

“Leaving?” John whispered. Beneath his fingers, he was certain his heart had ceased to beat.

“Tomorrow.”

He slowly closed his book and stared down at the gold leaf on its red leather spine. As his knees folded beneath him, he sat again on the chair. From the beginning, he had known that Sherlock’s sojourn at Watson Hall would only be temporary, but that did not ease the grief tightening around his heart.

“Why are you sitting here?” Auntie asked.

He looked up.

“The least you can do is make sure he has some food and supplies for the next leg of his journey.”

Nodding, John stood. What had he thought his aunt would say? That he should not waste a second of the few hours he had left with Sherlock?

“Cook has some packets for him in the kitchen,” she continued. “You should be certain that he receives them.”

“That sounds like a good idea.”

“’Tis an excellent idea, because it is mine.” Aunt Hudson smiled. “Go, child.”

“Yes.”

“And, John?” Her smile broadened. “I would stay far from your father’s office. He has a caller.”

“I never intrude on Father’s business.”

“A most disagreeable caller.”

John nodded. Auntie must mean either Sebastian Moran or his father. He was not certain which one his aunt despised more.

He walked to the door, then ran back and hugged his aunt before hurrying down the stairs. He did not bother to go into the kitchen. There would be time enough – later – to worry about packing food for Sherlock.

He realized how much he had hoped Auntie had misunderstood as he rushed across the garden and then slowed to stare at Sherlock, who was testing the brake on his wagon, looking under it to be certain it was now working. How skimble-skamble could he be? Auntie was never confused about anything. She always saw everything with a clarity that John envied.

Sherlock looked up as John walked across the surprisingly empty stable yard. “John, didn’t I hear you say that you were going to finish your book this afternoon?”

“I was reading until I heard what you were doing.”

“Nothing stays secret long in Watson Hall, does it?”

“You intended your leave-taking to be a secret? Why?”

Sherlock smiled, but his eyes remained serious. “I didn’t intend that. Just a manner of speaking, and not a very good one, if I am to judge by your expression.”

“You said nothing last night.”

“No.” He kicked a stone under the wheel so that there was no chance the wagon would roll. “I had other things on my mind last night.”

John looked away from his beguiling smile. Mayhap Aunt Hudson had sent him out here so that he had to face his own unthinking choices. Once again, he had not considered the consequences of listening to his heart instead of common sense. He had been a widgeon to let Sherlock steal a few kisses, but John feared he could easily steal more than that. He could steal John’s heart as well.

“You would be wise,” he said, “to announce yourself loudly wherever you go. You do not want to be mistaken for that French prisoner.”

“I’ll be careful.”

“Why did you not tell me you were leaving?”

“I wasn’t sure last night. Your father’s men got my wagon’s brake put back together just this morning.” He patted the side of the wagon. “It is better than new.”

“Did you plan to tell me before you left?”

“I was still trying to decide how.”

“How about with the truth?”

Sherlock frowned. “The truth?”

“Why must you always answer a question with a question?” John slapped the top of the wagon.

When he heard a gentle thump, he stared at the small door that had popped open in the side of the wagon. He saw only a flash of steel and some green wool wrapped around some papers before Sherlock slapped it closed.

Sherlock bent forward so his icy eyes force John’s half-voiced protests. “Don’t ever touch this again.” He ordered in a low voice.

“There’s a – “

“I know what’s in there!”

Refusing to be intimidated, he demanded, “Why do you have a gun hidden in there?”

“Don’t ask about things that are none of your business.”

John recoiled from his sharp words. “None of my business? You are hiding only God knows what in there, and you tell me it is none of my business? This is my home. Father should know if you are in trouble – “

“I am not in any trouble,” Sherlock declared as he laughed tautly. “Save with you. Forgive me, John. The pistol is to make sure no one steals from my wagon. The other things are items I promised to deliver to a village not too far from here. That will be my first stop.”

“When are you leaving?” John glanced at the wagon. Sherlock’s explanation was reasonable, but his reaction had not been. This must have to do with the secret he never divulged. He wished he could figure out what it was.

“Once I am sure the brake will hold the wagon, I will be on my way. It will be good for me to get back to my own life.”

A deep voice said, “Tomorrow should be a good day to begin your journey.”

John started to greet Sebastian, but Sherlock’s laugh halted him. Sherlock said, “You look better than I had guessed you would. Those spots must be pretty uncomfortable. Do they itch?”

Sebastian ignored him, instead turning to John. “I have been speaking with your father, and I do not have time to linger here listening to a _traveling_ merchant.” He smiled coolly. “I would appreciate your walking with me to my carriage.”

When John hesitated, Sherlock said, “Go along, John, while I finish loading my wagon. I am nearly done, and I told Harry I would join her for something cool to drink when I was finished. I will see you back at the house.”

Taking John’s arm, Sebastian shoved him ahead of him toward the garden. He grumbled, “You let him give you orders as if you are the peddler and he is of the ton?”

John did not answer his question. To speak of how he was hurt by Sherlock sending him away when they had such a short time to spend together would make the situation worse. Sebastian did not want to hear how he was weeping inside at the idea of Sherlock’s leaving. So instead of the truth, he spoke of the weather, of the search for the escaped French prisoner, of the recent bountiful catch brought in by the village fisherman.

Yet, even as he prattled, keeping the width of the garden path between them, his thoughts were filled with Sherlock’s voice. Over and over, like and endless echo, he could hear Sherlock talking about readying the wagon to leave. He guessed Sebastian must know that as well, for he was silent.

They were halfway across the garden, separated from the house by the copse at the edge of the water garden when John halted midword and Sebastian’s arm clamped around his waist. John almost yelped when he was whirled against Sebastian.

“Don’t, Sebastian.” John stepped away. When he saw Sebastian’s face grow taut with fury, he backed even farther away.

“You’re mine!”

“Yours? We are not betrothed.”

“We should be.” He reached for John again.

As John spun to return to the house, Sebastian caught him and forced John into his arms again. His lips claimed John’s, and John shouted out his denial, but the sound vanished into Sebastian’s mouth.

John could not believe what Sebastian was doing when he pushed him toward the ground. He was not a prostitute to be treated like this! John fought him, but Sebastian bore down on him until his knees buckled beneath him.

Leaning over him, Sebastian laughed. “Save your strength. If you scream until you are weak, you won’t give me as much pleasure.”

“I have no interest in – “

“You acted interested with Holmes!”

Although John wanted to fight him, he told himself to be calm. Sebastian was furious, and John must take care that he did not rouse his temper, for it was clearly as vicious as his father’s. “Sebastian, you are mistaken. Think what you are doing. Let me up.”

“I am thinking about what I am doing. Finally, I am. I will let you up as soon as you prove to me that I am your first lover.”

“Are you mad?” John gasped, staring at Sebastian as if he had never seen him. Why had he let Greg persuade Father to consider Sebastian’s suit? He should have listened to his own heart which had warned him that Sebastian was a beast. “Stop!”

“You won’t tell me that when we are mated.” Sebastian laughed again. “Pa says you will take a little training, but you shall learn.”

“Not from you!” John pushed him away. Scrambling to his feet, he glowered at Sebastian when he caught his arm again. “Shall we see what _my_ father has to say about your despicable behavior?”

“And what of yours? Was your walk in the woods with Holmes during the beating of the bounds a part of your usual _rendezvous_ far from your family’s eyes?”

He wanted to ask Sebastian who had seen Sherlock follow him into the woods as he returned to Watson Hall, but he knew it was wiser to relent now. Even to ask a single question could be dangerous. “I shall tell Father that I cannot marry you.”

“Cannot? Why not?”

“Sebastian – “

Sebastian’s fingers dug into John’s arm. “Tell me, John.”

“Sebastian, you must listen to me!”

“Name them! I shall rip that Alpha apart before your eyes so you can see what happens to the man who dares cuckold me!”

“No! Sebastian, there is – “

Sebastian’s lips clamped painfully over John’s. Trying to turn from him was impossible. His mouth slid across John’s cheek as his hands moved down from his waist.

John had to escape this. He must. He would be ill if it continued. _Sherlock, why did you let me go with him?_

“Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes? I should have guessed! You were with him in the wood.”

John pulled back as he heard triumph in Sebastian’s voice. Had he spoken his thoughts aloud? Faith, he had not realized… Seeing his smile become a scowl, he said, “Sebastian, no! Sherlock is not my lover. I was – “

“Be silent, whore!” Taking his arm again, Sebastian steered him toward the house.

In horror, John understood what he intended to do. “Sebastian, no!” He gasped again. Either Sebastian did not hear him, or he chose to John. He shoved John ahead of him into the parlor where John’s father and family sat… and Sherlock!

His father came to his feet, frowning. Only now did John realize that his shirt and trousers were marked with grass stains and twigs. His hair was in disarray. When he looked past his father to Sherlock, he knew, from the fury boiling in his eyes’ depths, there was no way to avoid disaster. He wished Aunt Hudson were there with them. Even though his Aunt could create all kinds of mayhem with her outspoken ways, she now would demand that everyone think before jumping to conclusions.

“What happened to you, John?” Harry asked, staring at him in disbelief.

Sebastian gave him no chance to answer. He roared, “Holmes, I want to speak with you now!”

“Then speak with me, Moran,” Sherlock said calmly as he came to his feet. “What do you want to say to me before I tell you what I have to say to you?”

“I return your whore to you.” He shoved John so hard that he dropped to his knees in front of his father. Moran’s caustic smile was turned on Father. “Did you tell him that he should be proud to have taken a lover? You must have thought me a sap-skull to have his bastard foisted off on me.”

“My son is no whore.” Helping John to his feet, his father added, “I suggest you go home immediately, Sebastian, and rethink your insults. Mayhap then John will accept your apology.”

Moran bellowed like a mindless bull. “My apology? Why should I apologize to him when he is a whore?”

“Sebastian Moran, I have warned you once not to speak of my son so,” Father said in a rigid voice. Harry was getting to her feet. Only Greg remained sitting. “Get out!”

“Not until you hear him speak of his shame with his own lips.” Sebastian ripped John from his father’s embrace. “I want you all to hear why _I_ have decided I do not want to marry him.” With a curse, he thrust John toward where Sherlock watched in silence. “Tell them, John, how you owned to pleasuring Holmes.”

“Sherlock?” Greg choked out the word, in disbelief.

If someone else spoke, John did not hear. He did not breathe. Only his eyes moved as he met Sherlock’s verdigris gaze. It took every bit of his courage not to lower his eyes, for he feared seeing his fury at being dragged into a battle which was not his.

When Sherlock stepped toward him, his footsteps loud in the silent room, he took John’s hand as a hint of a smile eased his lips’ uncompromising line. His other hand curved along John’s cheek. Softly, so no one else could hear, he whispered, “What did he do to you to force my name from your lips?”

“Please don’t ask.”

He brushed a twig from John’s hair. “I need not, for the sight of you so obviously disheveled would persuade any man with a bit of a brain in his head to realize you did not speak of your own volition the words that would ruin both of us.”

Both of them? Oh, dear, he had not guessed, in the midst of his fear and anger and need to escape, how his unthinking words could damage Sherlock, too. If rumors spread that he had seduced the Omega son of his host, few doors would open to him and fewer would be interested in purchasing what they would now deem as his tainted wares. He gasped, “Sherlock, don’t lie! Tell them…”

“That, mayhap, Holmes didn’t understand what he was doing?” Sebastian chortled and slapped his thigh.

Sherlock looked past John as he put an arm around his shoulders and stood beside him. “I realized exactly what I was doing.” He ran his hand along John’s cheek in a motion that was so tender, tears flooded John’s eyes. “John’s magnificence beguiled me until I was insane with desire for him.”

“Sherlock, no!” John cried as his words cut through the haze of his distress. A flush climbed his ashen cheeks. Was Sherlock out of his mind? To give the lie even the least credence would destroy Sherlock.

“Hush, sweetheart. It is too late to deny what happened.”

In a choked voice, John’s father asked, “Sherlock, are you owning that you seduced my son?”

Sherlock smiled, “You don’t think John seduced me, do you?”

“Sherlock, please – “

He silenced John by turning him into his arms. He so wanted to put his head against Sherlock’s chest and beg his forgiveness for this bumble-bath. Then Sherlock could tilt his head back and delight him with his lips over John’s. Then…

John was pulled away, and he raised his fist to make sure Sebastian did not hurt him – or Sherlock – again. His eyes widened as he discovered that it was his father who held him. Slowly he lowered his hand to his side.

His father did not look at him as he growled, “We made you welcome in our home when you were injured. Is this how you repay our hospitality? By seducing John?”

“Hanging might not be a bad idea.” Sebastian said with a laugh.

John tensed, but Sherlock said, “My feelings for John were never meant to dishonor you in any way or to lessen my gratitude to you.”

“Yet you seduced him and planned to leave him?”

“Father,” John began. He tried to silence John with a fierce glare, but John could not let Sherlock be punished for a crime he hadn’t committed. “Father, you do not understand.”

“I understand well enough.”

“Sherlock’s life is elsewhere. Mine is here.”

“So you thought you could forget about marriage? Mating? I thank heavens that your papa is not here to see this. What your aunt will think…” He shook his head.

John tried to halt them, but tears cascaded along his cheeks. He did not cry for himself, but for his father who was wounded by these ridiculous lies. “Father, it is not as you think. Sherlock and I – “

“Never meant to hurt this family,” Sherlock said with the same quiet serenity.

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock folded his arms in front of him again, and John noticed his wince. How many more ways could he cause Sherlock pain? His face was somber. “John has no wish to shame you or his family, my lord.”

“But he has. No Alpha will ever mate him.” Father glanced at Sebastian, who shook his head and laughed loudly.

“That’s not true,” Sherlock replied in the same grave tone. “To protect your son’s reputation, I shall marry him.”

John cried, “No, Sherlock! Are you insane?”

“Silence, Omega!” snapped his father. “This is not the fine marriage I would have wished for you, but it is clear that you had no such interest in such a mating. I shall arrange for a special license to be issued without delay. Harry, alert Reverend Hooper.” His dark eyes gleamed with rage. “I want no chance of you, Sherlock, changing your mind in the dawn-light and leaving my son with a reputation that cannot be salvaged.”

“For heaven’s sake,” John moaned, grasping Sherlock’s arms. He released one when Sherlock winced again. John did not want to cloud his mind with pain. Sherlock had to think clearly. _Now!_ “Stop this before it is too late!”

“It is too late already.” When he looked past John again, he whirled to see Sebastian trying to keep Harry from leaving the room. 

“Step aside,” Harry was saying, her face pale with confusion. John could not blame her for being baffled when he himself could not even guess how this afternoon had exploded with every emotion from contentment to anger and then had become a disaster.

Sebastian pushed her back and snarled, “If you think you can save his name by wedding him to Holmes like this, you’re a fool, Watson! Everyone will be curious as to why a baron’s Omega son is marrying a classless peddler.”

“Good afternoon.” Father’s words were spoken without emotion. “You may rest assured that, once this wedding is completed, I shall discuss with your father my opinions of your obvious treatment of John.”

“ _My_ treatment of _him_?” Sebastian’s narrow eyes glowed with hatred. 

John raised a trembling finger and pointed to the door. “Father asked you to leave. If he has to ask you again, I swear I shall get his shotgun and pepper your breeches with buckshot.” When a cautioning hand settled on his arm, he stepped closer to Sherlock.

Although John expected another volley of insults, Sebastian turned on his heel and stamped out the door. The outer door slammed as he left. John shivered, unable to believe that his torment at receiving him was over.

“He shall not hurt you again, sweetheart.”

John’s head snapped up as he heard Sherlock’s endearment. Then his relief vanished. What had he brought with his attempt to escape Sebastian’s heavy-handed seduction? He might have been enthralled by Sherlock’s tempting kisses, and he might have dreamed of his touch, but he knew nothing of him. No, he knew Sherlock was keeping secrets behind his charming smile.

When Sherlock’s arm curved around John’s shoulders, he drew away. He must not allow Sherlock to touch him. Not now… not when he needed to remain free of the fascinating tangle Sherlock created with his eager caresses.

Sherlock drew him to one side of the room. He waited for his father to protest. Then, he realized, his father saw nothing amiss with a couple about to wed wanting a moment alone.

“Sherlock, help me put a stop to this!” John whispered. “We cannot get married because of Sebastian’s tapestry of lies. He invented them to cover his own disbelief that I would not be thrilled to mate with him.”

Sherlock’s chuckle was devoid of humor. “It appears we shall be getting married as soon as your father makes all the proper arrangements.”

“This is ridiculous! Stop it!”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.” John flung his hand out. “Just walk out the door and never come back. That will end this.”

Sherlock’s palm followed the line of John’s jaw, and he fought not to savor the rapture flowing through him. It had betrayed him before; he must not let it betray him again.

Quietly, Sherlock asked, “Do you want me to leave here and never come back, John? Do you want me to leave you with a ruined reputation?”

“But I have done nothing to ruin my reputation.” John gripped Sherlock’s arms and wished he could shake some sense into him. He always had been so reasonable, logical. This was the wrong time to change. “Why won’t you tell father the truth?”

“He has no reason to believe me when his son whom he as always trusted as owned to being my paramour.” He gave John a wry smile and tipped his face up, gently. “It won’t be so horrible to be married to me, will it?”

John pulled back. “You intend to go through with this? You cannot be serious!”

His voice lowered to a husky whisper that stirred through John. “Very serious, John. For better or for worse, until death do us part.”

He took another step back. “Why? Why do you want to marry me? You told me you were eager to leave, that you could not wait to continue your travels.”

“Why do you find it so difficult to believe an Alpha would not take advantage of the opportunity to marry you?” Sherlock’s gaze swept over him, and he edged away.

As soon as Molly’s father arrived with the proper papers, he would be marrying an Alpha he hardly knew – for better and for worse and for all the days of their lives. Every night of those many days, he must share his bed with him. Every heat. As he looked at Sherlock’s smile, he began to understand just how long that could be.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel as if I owe everyone an explanation for the long delay in posting. And then I remember that no one cares about my life drama, lol. Just get to the damn chapter. 
> 
> As always, a love song to [Nymeria578](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Nymeria578/pseuds/Nymeria578). Her patience with me seemingly knows no bounds and always makes me giggle when pointing out my ridiculous mistakes. That said, if you find any remaining mistakes, they're my fault.

Chapter 9

John was not certain if the time flew or crawled past while Father waited for the special license to be delivered to Watson Hall. Sitting alone in his room and being so quiet even Elsa finally left him to his own thoughts, he wished he could turn back the clock to the moment Sebastian had asked him to walk him to his carriage.

He would have refused. Then John would not have had to suffer his pawing and been so stupid as to speak Sherlock’s name. Then he would not have had to see horror on Father’s face and listen to Sherlock calmly owning how he let passion for John overmaster his good sense.

It was all lies. Why could no one else see that?

John leaned his head back against the chaise lounge. Maybe he could have persuaded Sherlock to change his mind about all of this if he’d had a chance to speak with him alone again. Sherlock had been avoiding him.

A knock sounded at his door. John sat up. Could it be Father? Maybe _he_ had come to his senses and demanded that Sherlock be honest with him. Uncertain if he could trust his voice, he rose and opened the door.

His eyes widened as he saw Greg. He’d not said a word to John through all of this. John wanted to put his arms around Greg and assure him that he had not shamed him or the rest of the family.

“Yes?” he managed to whisper.

“I’d like to speak with you, John.”

John nodded, opening the door wider. Greg’s rigid posture mirrored his own. Closing the door after him, Greg walked over to stare out the window that overlooked the gardens. John waited for him to say something, but he remained silent.

The rattle of a carriage announced an arrival. John looked out the other window and swallowed his moan of dismay. It was Reverend Hooper’s pony cart. The special license must have been delivered, and Father had sent for the minister to marry him and Sherlock.

_No! This was all wrong!_

Edging to his door, he opened it to hear Reverend Hooper greeting his father. If no one halted this madness, he would be marrying Sherlock Holmes to right a wrong they had not committed.

“What do you want to say to me?” John asked as he closed the door and faced his cousin. “It seems you must be quick about it, for the minister is here.”

“Can you be honest now?”

Heat rose along his cheeks as he reached for a comb. Combing his hair into place would give his trembling fingers something to do.  
“Yes,” he whispered, “I can be honest now.”

Greg shuffled his feet as if he were the guilty one. When he raised his eyes, John saw he was uncomfortable with him as Greg had never been. Tears pricked John’s eyes. The most horrible legacy of these lies might be that he was ripped away from his beloved family.

“Sherlock is lying, isn’t he?” Greg asked.

“Yes,” he answered without hesitation, “but how – ?”

“I know you,” Greg stated with the dim hint of a smile. “I am also beginning to know Sherlock. He doesn’t take his vows lightly. He might bend his promise to Uncle enough to kiss you, as he cannot hide that he wants to do so, but he would never seduce you.”

“You do know him.”

“So why did you set up this charade? Do you love each other so much that you were willing to chance ruining yourselves this way?”

John placed his comb on the table beside the window. He then opened the window to allow in the fresh air from the garden, but none of the luscious scents could ease his despair at how much easier it was to speak of Sherlock and himself as lovers than to own to the uneven state of his heart. “I am being honest when I say that love is not why Sherlock decided to agree to marry me.”

Greg spun John toward him. When he was about to protest, Greg’s fierce expression silenced him. With an intense tone he had never heard in Greg’s voice, he snarled, “This is no lark, John! Reverend Hooper’s waiting downstairs for you and Sherlock to stand before him and take vows of fidelity for the rest of your lives. The rest of your lives! You have been rash before, cousin, but think before you agree to something as want-witted as this.”

“What can I do? Accuse Sherlock of lying?”

“He _is_ lying!”

Stepping away, he reached for the small box sitting on the shelf beside his bed. Lifting out a set of gold cufflinks edged in pearls, he said, “Greg, Papa gave me these when he knew he would not live to see me marry. He told me to wear them on the most joyous day of my life.”

“Which this cannot be.”

“He expected that I would wear it when I was married.” John set the box on his bed and linked them through his cuffs.

Greg stared at him, opening his mouth once, then closing it. He took a deep breath that raised and lowered his shoulders slowly before saying, “You said Sherlock is not marrying you because he loves you, but do you love him, John?”

Again John found it impossible to meet his eyes. “That is not really important right now.”

“When will it be important? When you are taking your vows? When you mate? When your first child is born? When, John? Liking is not the same thing as loving.”

“Don’t you think I know that? Don’t you think I have been thinking of little else?” John bit his lip to cage his sob. He wished Greg would not give voice to the questions which taunted him.

When his cousin whispered his name in a broken voice, John turned to look at him. He gently touched John’s cheek. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because you and Father and Sir Albert have given me no choice.”

“You have a choice.”

“What choice? To marry Sebastian?” John shook his head, drawing away from him. “I told him I cannot marry him. That’s when he started accusing me of taking a lover.”

“Why did you own that you had?”

“I didn’t! He simply couldn’t believe that I might not want him because he’s a lout.”

Greg frowned. “You have never given him a chance.”

“A chance?” John’s voice remained steady, only because he exerted all his will. “To do what? Force me to become his lover in the garden?”

“Sebastian would not – “

“Believe that I did not want him until he convinced himself that I had been seduced by Sherlock.” He raised his chin. “Greg, you are the one deluded. He would have forced himself on me.”

“You must have mistaken his intentions.”

“I believe I have mistaken yours.” He walked to the door and opened it. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Greg’s face harden as John said, “I thought you cared more about your cousin than ingratiating yourself with that disgusting slug and his father.”

John did not slam the door in his wake, but only because he wanted to do nothing more to shame his father. His furious steps faltered when he saw Harry standing near the stairs. How easily he could be furious with Greg, but he was protective of Harry, even more so since their papa had died.

“Are you truly going down to the chapel to be married?” She asked incredulously.

“The chapel?” John had not given thought to where the ceremony would be held. Speaking hypocritical vows of love might be possible in the parlor, but in the chapel…

“Father said this must be done right from this point forward.” Harry colored nearly to the shade of her scarlet waistcoat. Offering her arm, she asked, “Will you let me escort you to Father?”

He nodded, then whispered, “How is he?”

“He is not happy.” She gave him a quick grin. “But he is not as upset as he was. He lectured me for a full hour.”

“You? Why?”

“He does not want me to make the same mistake you and Sherlock have.” Her brows lowered, giving her the appearance of their father, a resemblance he had never seen till now. “But I am not sure he believes your story, John. I’m not sure I do either.”

“Then why…?” He bit his lip to silence the rest of the question. Mayhap his father knew, as John did, that to speak the truth now would mean he would be obligated to marry a man he despised.

Harry paused as they went down the stairs. Facing him, she said, “I know I would rather you be John Holmes than marry Sebastian Moran.”

“Don’t say that!”

“Say what?”

“That name!”

She frowned. “John Holmes will be your name if you do not change your mind.”

“I know,” he whispered, adding nothing else. John doubted if there was anything else to say.

As she continued down the stairs, John followed. His gaze was caught by his bedchamber door as it was opened. His fingers clenched on the banister. Not his bedchamber when he returned from the chapel, but his and Sherlock’s. Before dawn, the Alpha who had courted him with fiery kisses and his lightning-hot touch would be teaching him a far more intimate pleasure. He longed for his caresses.

“But not like this,” he whispered.

“What did you say?” Harry asked.

“Nothing,” John mumbled. How could he tell her his thoughts? They would label him as wanton as Sebastian had. Yet how could he think of anything else?

Mrs. Carson was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, John appreciated the housekeeper’s attempt to smile more than he could say. When Mrs. Carson pinned several flowers to his lapel, she said, “An Omega should have flowers.”

“Thank you,” John whispered.

“Father said to hurry.” A hint of a grin loosened the tightness of Harry’s lips. “He is not worried that Sherlock will run out on you, but something has him concerned. He has two footman watching the front door and one on the others.”

John understood what his sister did not. As Harry walked beside him toward the back of the house where the small family chapel was, he stared ahead, eyes unfocused. Father was worried about the Morans.

He was surprised, now that he thought of something beyond his despair, that Sir Albert had not called already. Or had he, and he had not taken note? Impossible! No one could fail to take note of Sir Albert Moran. He would not allow that.

“Is Aunt Hudson coming to the wedding?”

“Of course,” Harry glanced at him with surprise. “Why are you asking?”

“She has not come to see me.”

“Because,” Auntie said in her most no-nonsense voice as she stepped out of another passage to stop in right in front of them, I have been searching every inch of the attics for this.” She held out a lace pocket square that had yellowed with age nearly to the color of John’s hair.

John’s fingers trembled as he reached for the lace.

His aunt shook her head. “Harry, go ahead, and let your father know we are on our way.”

“Yes, Auntie.” She disappeared along the shadowed hall.

Aunt Hudson tucked the lace into his pocket and fluffed it. “I dreamed of you, our only omega, being married in a grand white suit made of white silk.”

“Father would not allow me to wear white silk now.”

“Not the silk, no, but the white?” She smiled. “You must love him dearly, John, to go through this charade to keep him from leaving.”

“Do you think that is what this is?”

“’Tis as good an explanation as any, I believe.”

“But it isn’t the truth.”

Her hands grasped his shoulders. For the first time, John realized he had to look down to meet Aunt Hudson’s eyes. She’d been such a formidable force in his life that he had not noticed when he’d grown taller than her.

“My dear child, don’t you realize that the truth is no longer important? Everyone has made up his or her mind what the truth is, and nothing you or Sherlock might do will change a single mind an iota.”

“The truth is always important.”

“Bah! That’s your father speaking at his most pompous.” Auntie laughed at John’s gasp of amazement. “Even he knows the truth has many shades other than black and white.” A frown flitted across her face. “Or he would if he stopped to think about it.”

“If the wedding is delayed – “

Aunt Hudson wagged a finger in John’s face. “Do not try to twist my words, child. Your father has given this matter much thought, and he has not changed his mind.”

John nodded as she fluffed the square again and straightened his cravat. Greg might have chided him for being unthinking, but he could never say Father was.

Walking with his aunt along the hall, he shivered as he paused by the chapel door. As soon as he stepped through it, he would be beginning a new life, one he had never imagined. No, he had imagined being in Sherlock’s arms – far too often his mind drifted in that direction – but he had never envisioned himself exchanging marital vows with him. And what would happen after the ceremony…? No, he mustn’t think of that, because if he didn’t marry him, he feared a quick betrothal to Sebastian would be arranged.

John stepped back when the door opened. Auntie went in, motioning for him to stay where he was. Candles burned on every surface within the chapel, their flames keeping the sunlight from reaching far past the stained glass. Instead of being empty, the chapel was filled with the household staff and Molly. John wanted to rush forward and take his friend’s hands and ask her help to find a way out of this mess. When he saw no one standing by the alter, his heart thudded against his chest. Where was Sherlock? Had he - ? He did not want to consider any of the reasons he might not be here.

Instead, he looked at his father. John’s eyes widened when he realized his father was dressed in his very best dark coat and pale breeches. When he held his arm out to John, John’s fingers trembled when he put them on his father’s sleeve. He put a hand over John’s and patted it as he had when John was a child and in need of comfort.

A door opened at the far end of the chapel, and Reverend Hooper stepped out. John’s stomach leaped like a rabbit racing across an open field when Sherlock followed him to the alter. His dark curls glinted in the candlelight. He wore a shirt that was neatly pressed and the waistcoat peeking out from beneath his dark coat was an unstained pale blue. In all, had his boots not been the scuffed ones he always wore, John would have been sure a stranger stood beside the reverend.

Until John looked into his eyes. Even though so much of what he saw there was baffling, as always, the twinkle that brightened them when Sherlock looked at him was irresistible, tempting him to forget all the reasons this ceremony was wrong and consider all the ways it could be so very right.

“John,” his father said quietly. “It is time.”

John nodded, not willing to trust his voice again. Tearing his gaze from Sherlock’s, he glanced at his father. He’d not been sure whether his father would be smiling or frowning, but puzzlement claimed his father’s expression. 

“It will be alright,” he said.

“I know.” John managed the two whispered words. 

As Father lead him toward the altar, everyone rose from the stone pews and turned to watch. He ignored the temptation to laugh when he realized how different this was from what he’d imagined as a child. His dreams of being a soldier well and truly shattered, though he’d always known it wouldn’t happen. As he looked from his father to his sister and cousin now seated in the foremost pew next to Aunt Hudson, a beatific smile on her face as if she had arranged the whole of this, then on to the gently smiling face of the minister, he wanted to apologize for snaring them in this web of delusion. 

His gaze went again to Sherlock. To him, John owed the greatest apology. In order to save himself from a horrifying life with Sebastian Moran, he was ruining Sherlock’s. Sherlock had every reason to despise John. Maybe that was why he’d been avoiding John. He had wanted to savor his last few hours of freedom.

Warmth washed over him as Sherlock smiled so gently that John knew his fears had been silly. His smile reached within him to melt the ice around John’s heart. Gasps rang through the chapel as Sherlock stepped down from the altar and walked toward John.

Father’s arm grew rigid, and John knew he was wondering, as John was, if Sherlock was walking away to leave him in shame even now.

But Sherlock paused in front of them. Bowing his head toward Lord Watson, he said, “Thank you, my Lord.”

Father blinked, then nodded. Lifting John’s hand off his arm, he placed it in Sherlock’s hand. John thought his father would say something to them, but he stepped back.

When Sherlock entwined their fingers and led John to where Reverend Hooper was waiting, John whispered, “You don’t need to do this.”

“But you must,” Sherlock’s smile grew cold, “If you do not marry me today, I suspect you will be marrying Moran tomorrow.”

It required all his strength to still the quivers in John’s voice. “I know, but you were planning on leaving to return to your life.”

“Now I guess I shall be staying to make my life here.” Sherlock sighed, but that glitter remained in his eyes. “If I refuse to save your family’s reputation by marrying you, your father will take target practice to my backside as you threatened to do to Moran.”

“If we told Father – “

“It’s too late for the truth.”

“It’s never too late!” He was distressed that Sherlock was echoing Auntie’s words. Had all of them gone crazy?

Before Sherlock could answer, Reverend Hooper called, “Shall we begin?”

John looked expectantly at Sherlock. This was his last opportunity to tell the truth, but he acted as if he had no qualms about this mockery of a marriage. Maybe he truly was mad. Had he traded a life with Sebastian for a life with a madman? Glancing at Sherlock’s fine clothes, John shivered. Or did he have another reason for agreeing to wed John. A peddler should not aspire to mate a baron’s child, but John was more and more sure that Sherlock was no more a peddler than John was. Sherlock had some reason for behaving as he did. John just wished he had some idea what it might be.

When Sherlock tugged on Johns fingers to draw him toward the altar, John forced his leaden feet forward. The reverend regarded him steadily, and John wondered if he was ashamed of what he must see as a lamb straying from the flock.

Reverend Hooper took John’s other hand between his. “Will this Alpha make you happy, John?”

“Yes,” he whispered, hoping the witnesses would translate the blush on his face as embarrassment. Instead he was flustered by Sherlock overhearing his owning to the minister what he’d never said to him. Although he was not sure that he loved Sherlock Holmes, being with him was endlessly thrilling. Sherlock teased him and forced John to keep up with his quick wit. When John despaired, he offered compassion and dared him to face his problems head-on. The aura of mystery surrounding Sherlock tantalized him. And his touch… John’s bones threatened to melt like sweets left in the sun as he thought of how this ceremony would end. He would be in Sherlock’s arms and his mouth on John’s. Later – 

“Then, John,” The minister said, interrupting thoughts which brought more heat to John’s face, “’Tis time to say your vows with this man you love.”

John glanced at Sherlock. To hear the pastor speak of love with such ease unsettled him. He wanted to shout that he was not in love with Sherlock, but he remained silent. Auntie was right. Sherlock was right. It was too late for the truth. It was too late for anything but marrying a man he barely knew to begin a new life he could not imagine.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To make up for the long gap before the last chapter. A new one! Thank you to all who have commented on this story. I always appreciate hearing that you are enjoying it. Please feel free to point out any mistakes I may have missed. 
> 
> [Nymeria578](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Nymeria578/pseuds/Nymeria578) is my beacon of guiding light. She's always amazing about getting my chapters back and being an outlet for drama and giggles.

Chapter 10

John answered when required as Reverend Hooper read the marriage rite. He kept his gaze in the center of his surplice until he asked, “Who gives this Omega in marriage.”

“I do,” his father said.

John looked at him in astonishment. He could not mistake the emotion in his father’s voice. Not embarrassment, not anger, not relief, but quiet pleasure. John gazed into his eyes. A sob caught his throat. For whatever transgressions his father believed he had committed, he’d forgiven John completely.

Father kissed his cheek. “I hope you will be happy with Sherlock, son.”

_I hope so, too._ John prayed he’d not said those words aloud. No one must hear the doubts clamoring in his head.

Sherlock repeated the wedding vows in a clear voice, but John’s trembled as he promised to love Sherlock forever. When Sherlock took his left hand in his, John gasped as he watched him slide an ornately twisted ring onto his fourth finger.

“Where did you get this?” he blurted out.

Sherlock grinned. “A good peddler always has every kind of gewgaw on his wagon, even things he could not imagine needing himself.”

Reverend Hooper smiled as he pronounced them married and added, “Congratulations.”

John’s fake smile made his face ache as he thanked him. He was glad for anything that gave him an excuse not to look at Sherlock. At _his Alpha!_

His hand on John’s arm warned him that Sherlock refused to be overlooked. He brought John to face him and said softly, “John Holmes. An Omega is something I did not expected to find when I offered you a tin of tea in exchange for a night’s lodging for me and my horse.”

As Sherlock rubbed his finger over the wedding ring, John whispered, “I am sorry that – “

“Sorry?” With a laugh, Sherlock tugged John into his arms. He brushed aside John’s fringe. His lips stilled John’s answer as he teased John to remember the rapture of stolen kisses. When Sherlock’s tongue surreptitiously teased the corners of John’s lips, his breath swirled through John’s mouth.

John struggled not to dissolve into the seductive fire. As Sherlock raised his lips, his fingers caressed John’s cheek, lingering on the curve of his mouth. John could read a craving in Sherlock’s eyes and a quiver ran down his spine.

“Don’t look so frightened,” Sherlock teased. He kissed John lightly again, resisting the need to claim his lips until every yearning in him was sated. “I won’t be an ogre of a mate.”

“You shall be only as impossible as you’ve been up until now?”

Sherlock laughed, hoping his joking would ease the fear in John’s eyes. “I suspect you may be right.”

His efforts were in vain. John’s smile was brittle when his family came forward to congratulate them. Sherlock stepped back to give them a moment alone as a family and to let him observe how the baron reacted. Watson’s rage was gone. Instead relief seemed to surge through his father-in-law.

Father-in-law!

_Idiot!_ The condemnation was not in his own voice, but it might as well have been. He knew that marrying now was probably the most witless thing he had ever done. The devil was sure to demand his due, but not marrying John would have been far more stupid. He could not let this ceremony change his plans. The others would have to understand that he intended for his name to protect John against the Morans. It was the very least Sherlock could do for him.

“Shall we share a drink from the marriage cup?” he asked in a light voice which masked the truth he must never speak, even to the Omega who now shared his name.

“Marriage cup?” John repeated. When he looked at Sherlock, John saw sympathy in his eyes. Fury laced through him. Pity was not what he wanted from Sherlock Holmes. He realized, with a jolt of dismay, that he had no idea what he did expect from Sherlock… and from the life they must have together.

“There are refreshments for everyone in the morning room.” Aunt Hudson waved all the witnesses, shooing them out of the chapel like a farm Omega shooing their chickens.

Molly remained sitting in her pew. She stood, and John went to her, leaving Sherlock to speak with his father and the minister.

Taking his hands, Molly smiled at the same time she blinked back tears.

“Are those tears of joy?” John asked.

“How can you ask that? His friend’s eyes widened as she whispered. “Is it true what is rumored in the village? Did your father force you to marry this peddler?”

“My father would not force me to marry against my will.” John repeated the words which he had said so often, and he longed to believe them. Maybe Father would have acquiesced if he had flown off into a frenzy about marrying Sherlock, but John was certain Father would have insisted he marry someone else without delay.

Molly’s smile returned. “Then it is as I guessed when we were beating the bounds. You have a deep _tendre_ for this Alpha who saved you from the smugglers.”

“You thought that?”

“How could I not have?” She laughed quietly. “You glow like the first star each time you speak of him. He must make you very happy.”

“He does.” John was relieved to speak the truth. Even though he was unsure about loving Sherlock, he was certain that his life would be empty without him in it. He flinched and glanced back at the altar. Sherlock had said his life would be here now, but for how long? So many times, he had spoken of his love for his free life upon the country lanes.

When an arm encircled his shoulders, he looked up to see Sherlock’s smile. Somehow, he managed to introduce him to Molly without bumbling over his words too often. He was as gracious to Molly as if she were the daughter of the king, which was no surprise. Sherlock treated everyone with respect, save for the Morans. 

“Your aunt told me quite imperiously that we should not delay joining the others in the morning room.” Sherlock gave John a rakish leer. “Maybe she thought I would spirit you off to have you alone even before the first toast was raised to our marriage.”

John had seldom blushed before Sherlock arrived at Watson Hall, but he knew he must be doing so now, for heat surrounded him. Sherlock laughed and winked at Molly who giggled as they walked out of the chapel.

Or had he reddened? When his fingers played along John’s arm, the sweet blaze raged within him.

They neared the morning room. From it came joyous voices. When Reverend Hooper and Molly continued into the room, Sherlock slowed.

“It is too late for second thoughts,” John said, his voice falling flat again.

“You are wrong about that.” Sherlock’s finger stroked John’s cheek. When John did not look at him, his finger ran along John’s jaw before tilting his chin up. “I am filled with second thoughts, John.”

“As am I.” John gave him a wry smile. “An annulment might not be so easy when we have acknowledged that we cuckolded the parson.”

“Such language!” Sherlock tapped John’s nose. “But an annulment was not among those second thoughts on my mind right now.”

“And what is?”

“This.”

His kiss was gentle, asking John to give him only what he wanted to. John wanted to give him everything. He pulled back with a gasp, frightened by his own cravings to make this marriage more than a sham built on lies.

Rushing into the morning room, he could not escape the truth. The one bit of truth he had refused to speak, just as Sherlock had refused to speak of how they had shared no more than kisses. He was falling in love with Sherlock Holmes, who continued to be the very mate he had longed for – an Alpha of courage and honor. An Alpha he could admire at the same time he could love him.

“Have you misplaced your mate already, brother?” Harry crowed, warning him that he had hurried headlong into the room without considering the consequences… yet again.

“No.” He looked back to see Sherlock in the doorway. His face held a smile appropriate for an Alpha who had made a good marriage that day. “There he is.”

“We are waiting for you two to share the marriage cup, so we can enjoy the cake.” She pointed to the table where a multi-tiered cake was decorated with flowers and doves. It was wildly extravagant and totally wrong for this hurried wedding.

Then he realized that Auntie would not be denied some parts of this celebration. No wonder, he had not seen her since the wedding was announced. Aunt Hudson had been busy making all these arrangements.

Affixing a smile in place that was the twin of Sherlock’s, John said, “Then I shall have to make certain you wait no longer.” He went to the table, hoping to appear nonchalant. 

Harry’s chuckle warned him that his anxiety was visible. He prayed that they would guess his nerves were simply those of any Omega, for he did not want to let anyone suspect his thoughts.

He cursed his fingers which trembled as he reached for the bottle of cider waiting by the cake in the center of the table. Glad that Father had not served wine, which would make the day even more stressful for all of them, he pulled the cork. When it did not move, unreasonable tears of frustration bubbled against his lashes. Long fingers covered his, and he looked over his shoulder to see Sherlock’s smile. 

“How do you expect me to open it if you grab it away from me?” Color washed from John’s face as he heard the abrupt silence which followed his heated words. These were not the words an Omega should be speaking to his mate only minutes after the marriage rites.

Sherlock acted as if he were immune to the startled glances, although John knew how little was missed by his keen eyes. “I want to help. Nothing more.”

“All right.” John handed Sherlock the bottle and reached for the crystal goblets. Keeping his eyes on the cider as he poured it was easier than meeting the amusement he was sure would be in Sherlock’s gaze. Or worse, John would see the desire which had taunted him into ceding himself to passion. A quiver raced through him, warning how feeble his defenses were against the longing Sherlock instilled in him just by standing so close.

The cider splashed into his goblet as conversations resumed. Hearing Harry jesting with Greg, John tried to smile. He had almost succeeded when loud footsteps sounded on the floor beyond the morning room. 

Again conversation vanished. Sherlock put a hand on his arm, but John did not want to move from his side as Sir Albert Moran paused in the doorway and scanned the room. Even with the passage of years, Sir Albert had not lost his commanding presence. The black remaining in his gray hair was as dark as his eyes, and the breadth of a face that was falling into jowls was diminished by his wide shoulders. It was easy to imagine him browbeating the prime minister… both figuratively and literally. 

Father went to the door. “Sir Albert, I did not expect to see you today.”

“No?” Sir Albert burst into the room, Sebastian trailing him in silence. When his father pointed a wide finder at him, Sebastian glowered. “This want-witted son of mine has told me only in the past hour that he decided not to marry your son. What do you know about this?”

“Isn’t it better they discovered that before they spoke their vows before Reverend Hooper?

“What do they know?” Sir Albert snarled with a curse.

Aunt Hudson snapped, “Albert Moran, I will ask you to refrain from using such oaths in my home. If you wish to speak so lowly, I will ask you to leave.”

He started to retort, then stared past Aunt Hudson to the table and the cake that was set in its very center. His eyes narrowed as his gaze swept the room.

“Don’t say anything,” Sherlock hissed under his breath.

John glanced at him, then lowered the cups to the table. He would never quail before Sir Albert again. No longer did he have to listen to his comments about how happy John would be when he married Sebastian.

Faster than he had guessed Sir Albert could move, he had leaped forward and grabbed John’s arm. Before Sir Albert could tug John toward him, Sherlock’s fist struck his wrist with a sharp whack. Sir Albert screeched, but released John.

“Bastard!” Sir Albert cradled his wrist as he glared at Sherlock. “I shall break you in half!”

“No!” Father stepped between them, even though he was a head shorter than either man. His voice was calm. “You were not invited to this wedding, Albert.”

“Wedding?” Sir Albert stared at Reverend Hooper. “Whose wedding?”

Sherlock put his arm around John. When John stepped farther within that haven, Sherlock smiled. “Our wedding. John is now my mate.”

“I told you!” Sebastian cried. “He took that damned peddler for his lover! He is nothing but a whore.”

“Be silent!” roared Sir Albert.

Sebastian cowered like a beaten pup. Astonished at the pity that washed over him, John was about to speak when Sherlock’s squeezing of his shoulders silenced him.

Not that anyone would have heard him, for Sir Albert continued to bellow, “John was to be Sebastian’s mate. You agreed to that, Watson.”

“He did not,” Aunt Hudson said quietly. “He would not be so witless.”

“Auntie.” Putting a hand on her arm, Father said, “Do not speak of what you do not know.”

“Do you mean to tell me that you actually considered for even a heartbeat giving your son to those beasts? Mayhap your mate did not tell you what – “

“Auntie,” he repeated. “This is Alpha’s business. Let us handle it.”

“I would if I thought you would not get yourself in another complete pickle.”

“Auntie!”

John touched his great aunt’s arm. When Auntie glanced at him and nodded, he knew that she understood what could not be said aloud. To engage her nephew in a squabble now would only lengthen this uncomfortable situation. 

Reverend Hooper came around the table, his hands folded in front of him. “It may ease your dismay, Sir Albert, to realize this is not unusual. Even if Sebastian and John had been formally betrothed, a betrothal can be ended upon the young people.”

“Sebastian did not – “

“Sebastian did break it!” asserted John, unable to be silent any longer.

“Impossible!” Sir Albert pointed a thick finger at his silent son. “Speak up, you useless excuse for an Alpha!”

Sebastian flushed, the ruddiness visible even beneath his sun-darkened skin. He shot a vengeful glare at John. “I do not want him when he has been letting that lowborn peddler tumble him.”

“You idiot!” his father screeched. “You were supposed to bring him home We were supposed to have him.”

John’s fingernails bit into Sherlock’s arm. When Sherlock loosened them, giving him a grim smile, John leaned closer to him. He had not wanted to believe him when Sherlock said Sir Albert wanted John more for himself than for his son. When he glanced at his father, John saw realization dawning in his furious eyes. He looked at his aunt, who nodded sagely. 

Father’s face grew as ruddy as Sebastian’s. Beside him, Harry edged forward, her hands in fists. Even Greg was scowling. Maybe he had finally realized the caliber of the men he had been hoodwinked into believing.

Father glanced at John and smiled an apology. He wanted to smile back, but he could not while the Morans infested their home.

Sir Albert had not yet fully vented his ire. “Your son is a trading Omega, Watson, who deserves no better than a man who has taken airs to call himself a travelling merchant. Who knows how many Alpha’s he has pleasured? Or do you know and hope to get him a name to save your own. Holmes! Who the hell is he? He is so pitiful a man that you could foist your whorish Omega off on him!”

Stepping forward, Sherlock said in an unruffled voice that did not match the enmity in his eyes, “John has known no Alpha before me, I assure you. You would be wise not to slander my Omega because he chose to become a Holmes instead of a Moran. I shall not debate the obvious intelligence of his choice.” He smiled. “Do not make me so angry that I shall be forced to teach you a lesson before my Omega and his family.”

“You? Teach me a lesson?” Sir Albert snickered. “I could break you with my bare hands!”

“Do not be so sure of that.”

John yelped as Moran lunged at Sherlock. Hands grabbed him. Tugged him back against Sebastian’s chest, he struggled to escape. He saw his father motion to one of the footmen, but yelped again as Sir Albert’s blow went wide. Sir Albert whirled to face Sherlock who had moved easily out of the way.

Sherlock smiled as Sir Albert came at him. At the last second he stepped aside and put his foot out to trip Sir Albert, who fell against the table with a crash. The wedding cake teetered. The top two layers tumbled to the floor, one striking Sir Albert on the head. With a laugh, Sherlock took the cider and poured it over his head.

“To wash you off, Sir Albert,” he jeered. “If you’re going to act like a child, that’s how you should be treated.”

With a roar, Sebastian shoved John aside and raced forward, his fists raised. 

“Enough!” shouted Watson. He elbowed Sebastian aside and reached for the shotgun a footman held out to him. “My son warned you if you came back here without your manners, he would see your backside filled with buckshot. It will be my pleasure to do so, if you do not take your leave at once.”

Shaking his head, Sir Albert rose. “You would not dare.”

“Do not push him to find out.” Reverend Hooper’s deep voice rolled across the room. “Put that away, William. There shall be no more fighting. This is a wedding, not a brawl.” He held a hand out to John. When he went to him and put his left hand, with his wedding band glittering on it, on his hand, the reverend placed John’s had in Sherlock’s. “Remember these words. ‘What God has joined together, let no man put asunder.’ Do you understand?”

Sir Albert swore. “John was supposed to be a Moran. The people of the village will learn about this faithless whore!”

“Get out!” ordered Father. John stared at him, astonished by the breadth of his rage, then noticed his aunt was beaming with pride. “Get out of my home, Sir Albert Moran, and never enter it again until you apologize to my son, his mate, and the rest of my family.”

Aunt Hudson added, “We shan’t despair if you decide _not_ to apologize, Albert.”

“Auntie…” Father groaned, then smiled as she grinned at him.

With another curse, Sir Albert stormed to the door. He motioned for his son to follow.

Sebastian shot a venomous scowl at John before doing so.

As if there had been no interruption, Aunt Hudson went to the table and picked up a knife. She pressed it in John’s numb fingers.

“Cut the wedding cake, my child.” She chuckled. “Or what is left of it, at any rate, so we may all enjoy some of Cook’s best frosting.”

John stared down at the knife, but could not lift his hand to cut the cake. When Sherlock’s fingers covered his once again, he looked up at him. He owed him more than his sanity, which would have been in jeopardy at the Morans’ house. He owed Sherlock his life.

With false levity, his father urged, “Go ahead, John. It is time we truly celebrated this wedding.”

\--

Hours later, when the last guest had departed and Aunt Hudson had expressed the last of her many, far from subtle hints that the newly mated couple might wish to be alone, John was silent as he walked along the hall to the bedchamber that would be his no longer. He fidgeted with his cufflinks and listened to Sherlock’s footsteps behind him.

He wanted to ask Sherlock what he was thinking. Maybe his thoughts were as jumbled as John’s.

Sherlock took John’s hand as they reached his bedroom door. “I know it’s tradition to carry an Omega over the threshold but I hope you’ll understand why that would not be a good idea.” He rubbed his shoulder.

“I understand.” _None_ of this was a good idea, he added silently, though he was grateful for the excuse not to be hauled through the door as if he couldn’t walk himself. He went into the bedchamber that was exactly as he’d left it hours before, save for the thin nightshirt waiting on the bed. He flinched when Sherlock closed the door behind him and sat on the bed as he slipped off his coat.

Sherlock Holmes was his husband. He had every right to share John’s bed.

Sherlock frowned and kneaded his shoulder carefully.

“Is it worse?” John whispered. He did not trust his voice to speak louder.

Sherlock smiled wryly. “The temptation to teach Moran a lesson was too sweet to resist.”

“Sherlock, what you did was…” When he looked up at John’s hesitation, he said, “It was stupid!”

“As stupid as your telling Sebastian Moran that we were lovers?”

“I know I was witless to whisper your name when – “ Terror raced along his spine. 

“Sherlock stood and, placing a finger beneath John’s chin, brought his face up to meet Sherlock’s furious eyes. “He shall never threaten you again, or I shall have the pleasure of taking him apart piece by piece. Not even this blasted shoulder shall halt me.”

John put his fingers over Sherlock’s on his cheek. Just touching him gave him strength. “Please do not speak so.”

“Do you harbor some affection for Moran?”

John shuddered. “Neither father nor son, but Sherlock, your determination to protect me has led you to do another very foolish thing.”

“Marrying you?” Sherlock shrugged. “John, to be honest, at the time, the idea of rescuing you from that ogre seemed like a fine idea.”

“You do not love me!”

“You do not love me, either.” He sat on the chaise longue and tugged off his left boot. Again he tugged off massaged his shoulder. “Dash it! I am beginning to believe this will never be the same.”

Kneeling to pull off Sherlock’s other boot, John said, “Nothing will.”

Sherlock took him by the shoulders and drew him up between his knees. His smile echoed the longing in his expressive eyes as his lips touched John’s. “You are a good Omega to help me like this.”

John gasped and pulled away to leave him grasping nothing but air. His emotions mixed over being called a good Omega.

Sherlock stood and padded toward John in his stockinged feet. When John backed into the bed he flinched. Sherlock’s eyes widened in shock when John pulled away from his outstretched hand again. “Why this sudden timidity? You have never been averse to my touch.”

“We were not married before,” John whispered.

Sherlock chuckled but stopped when John stiffened. “John, we _are_ married now.” With a sigh, he picked up the nightshirt on the bed and placed it in John’s hands. “Ready yourself for bed, John, while I go to my room and gather some pillows and blankets.”

“What?” John was certain he heard him wrong.

“I doubt you wish to share yours.” His grin became self-deprecating. “You should hurry and change if you do not want to tempt your husband beyond what a mortal man can endure. It should not take me long to sneak to my room and get what I need for tonight and the morrow.”

“You are leaving?”

“Only for a few minutes.”

“But, I thought—“ 

He grasped John’s shoulders. “John, you are what you are, and I am what I am. What sort of future can I offer you?”

“That is something we should have thought of before we spoke our vows.”

“I did. When I am certain you are safe from the Morans and their machinations, I will ask your father to petition for an annulment of this marriage.”

“But you said you weren’t thinking of an annulment.”

“I said I had no second thoughts about one. I know it is what we must do.” The back of Sherlock’s hand caressed John’s cheek. “There is no place in my life for you and certainly none in yours for me. The time you have to endure this should be short.”

“Short? You are leaving?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Right now.”  
“Right now?” John choked. “Where?”

Sherlock smiled. “To get some pillows and blankets.”

Grabbing a pillow off his bed, John flung it at him. How dare Sherlock mock him like this! His life was turned upside down and inside out.

Sherlock caught the pillow and tossed it back on the bed. “John – “ 

“I have heard all I wish to hear of your flummery, Sherlock Holmes! I wish I had never chanced upon you that day you walked into the shire.” John walked toward his dressing room.

“Do you? Do you really?” Sherlock asked to John’s back.

John halted, wanting to believe he had truly heard pain in Sherlock’s voice. Hands on his shoulders slowly turned him to face Sherlock. 

Gone was the ironic smile. Gone was the twinkle of merriment in Sherlock’s eyes. Gone was everything but a sorrow that struck him more fiercely than the smugglers had. 

“Do you?” he asked again in a raw whisper.

John shook his head. “No.”

“Nor do I. Our lives may be a mull, but I would not trade a second of this jumble for anything when we can share this.” With a groan, Sherlock pulled John into his arms and captured his mouth with his own. John answered Sherlock’s longing with his own. When Sherlock released him so suddenly that he swayed back against the bed, John saw the glitter of craving in his eyes. Sherlock fingered the collar of the nightshirt in John’s arms with another gut-deep groan. 

Then, cursing under his breath, he walked out of the room.

He would be back. 

John wished he knew what Sherlock would do then. Then again, John wished he knew what he _himself_ would do.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the ridiculous wait. This chapter has been ready for EVER but life is what it is. [Nymeria578](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Nymeria578/pseuds/Nymeria578) is as ever the most patient person ever.

Chapter 11

John was surprised to wake up alone in the morning. He had not thought he’d slept, but apparently he’d fallen asleep long enough for Sherlock to slip out of the room. After ringing for Elsa, he was as silent as his maid while he dressed. He saw Elsa glance at the chaise longue on which a folded blanket and pillow were neatly stacked. Still, he said nothing. There had been enough lies in this house, but he could not speak the truth. He could not be sure why. He only knew his heart ached within him like a broken-winged bird’s.

Going down to the breakfast room, he hoped to be late, so he could avoid his family. Instead, when he paused in the doorway, he found them waiting for him, as unspeaking as Elsa had been. Was this his punishment for hypocritical vows? To lose the closeness of his family?

_Were those vows so dishonest?_ taunted the small voice in his head. He tried to ignore it.

He wondered where Sherlock was, because he was not in the breakfast room. He could not ask his family, for they would consider him a very odd Omega to not know his Alpha’s whereabouts the morning after their wedding.

When he could no longer delay, John walked to the table. Neither Harry nor Greg met his eyes. Did they think he’d been altered by his marriage? Perhaps they were right. Nothing could ever be the same in the wake of the lies and counter lies which had bound his life to Sherlock’s.

“Good morning,” he whispered, kissing first his father’s cheek and then Aunt Hudson’s. 

“Sit here beside me.” Auntie urged.

Nodding, he obeyed. His aunt patted his knee, out of sight of the others, in a motion so kind that John feared the gathering tears would not stay in his eyes. 

When a bowl of porridge was placed in front of him, he asked, “Harry, will you pass the sugar, please?”

“Of course,” she answered, without lifting her gaze from her food.

He wanted to ask why she refuse to look at him, but said only, “Thank you.” He understood her bewilderment, because he shared it.

When he had stirred some sugar into his porridge and dipped his spoon into it, he raised the spoon, then lowered it, the porridge untasted. He tried to think of something, anything, to say that would sweep aside the despair smothering them, but no words seemed right.

His fingers clenched on his spoon as a shadow crossed the table and draped him in velvet darkness. Raising his eyes to meet Sherlock’s, he wondered how, even in the midst of all this madness, he could have forgotten how handsome Sherlock was. Ebony curls glinted as the sunlight caressed his hair as John’s fingers longed to do. Gone was the gray tinge from his accident; a creamy glow had returned to his face. A yearning to touch Sherlock afflicted John, but he kept his fingers tightly wrapped around the spoon.

Sherlock bent and kissed him on the cheek with a composure which gave no suggestion that there had been anything strange about their wedding and wedding night. “Good morning, my handsome mate.”

“Good morning, Sherlock.” John said, his voice quivering. He could not halt his hand from reaching up to brush Sherlock’s freshly shaven cheek.

Sherlock turned his head and pressed John’s palm to his lips. The motion was not inappropriate, but the fire burning in his eyes was intensely intimate. John could not doubt what he was thinking. Sherlock regretted, as John did when he touched him so sweetly, that their marriage was one of appearance only.

Sandwiching John’s hands between his, Sherlock asked, “I trust I did not disturb you when I left the room this morning. You were asleep, and I did not wish to wake you _then_.”

Despite John’s attempt to curb it, at Sherlock’s slight emphasis on that single word, suggesting he had awakened him at other times during the night, a blush oozed up John’s cheeks to heat his face. “No, you did not disturb me this morning.”

“Come here, my boy,” ordered Aunt Hudson. “As you are part of this family, you should know by now that I expect to be acknowledged with a kiss on the cheek by my niece and nephew each morning.”

With a chuckle, Sherlock kissed her proffered cheek.

Father glanced at them as he lifted his cup of coffee. “Sit down, Sherlock. As Auntie said, you are now a part of this family. You need not wait for an invitation to partake of a meal.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock answered as he sat beside John and across from his father. John did not doubt that he meant far more than the two simple words usually conveyed.

While the Alphas spoke about the futile search for the French prisoner, they managed a casual air that John could not copy. He toyed with his breakfast until he heard his father say, “Sherlock, I am assuming you will be staying at Watson Hall.”

“For the time being.”

“The time being?” John asked.

Sherlock smiled at him, but he was not bamboozled. That odd intensity had not left his gaze. “You and I must discuss our future at a time when we can speak in privacy, my dear mate.”

“Yes, yes.” His father said with an odd impatience. “That of course is your business. What I want to know now is, are you interested in joining the strand patrols, Sherlock?”

“The nightly patrols?”

“Yes.”

He chuckled and smiled at John. “Not every night, William.”

John had been about to ask his father about the patrols, but Sherlock’s answer silenced him. He was enjoying this hoax far too much. Yet, if he denounced Sherlock, he would have to own that Sherlock intended to annul their marriage. John was not sure what his father might insist upon them. He could not believe that Father might wed him to Sebastian, but everything seemed so peculiar.

At the end of the meal, he asked, “Father, may I speak with you a moment? Alone?”

Father glanced at Sherlock, “Of course. Sherlock, I will meet you in the stables in a few minutes.”

“No hurry.” Sherlock brushed John’s cheek with another kiss. 

John fought his body that slanted toward him, wanting more than this chaste salute. Taking a steadying breath as Sherlock walked out of the room with Harry, he forced his fingers to unclench at his sides.

Auntie herded Greg out of the room, chatting to him about Miss Donovan. His ears were blistering red as she asked some pointed questions about his plans.

As their voices faded, John was surprised when his father took his hand. He peeled John’s fingers back from the fist he had formed again without realizing it. Patting his hand, Father smiled.

John smiled back. It was easier than he had guessed. He was tempted to throw his arms around Father and spill he truth – all of it. He had not been Sherlock’s lover, not before the wedding, not after, but he feared he was falling in love with a man who had already told him he was going to leave him.

“I hope you and Sherlock are going to be happy, John.” 

“We will try to be,” John answered, hoping his reply sounded more assure to Father than it did to himself.

His father’s relieved smile told John what he should have known. Father had been as uneasy as John about this breakfast. Although he guessed neither Father or Auntie believed any longer that he and Sherlock had been lovers before the wedding, he knew they would find it unimaginable that John had slept by himself last night.

“You are disturbed about Sherlock joining us for the nightly patrols, aren’t you?” his father furrowed his brows in concern. “There is not much danger of doing more than tripping over something in the dark.”

“The smugglers – “

“Will give us wide berth. They do not want to be discovered by accident when we are on the lookout for the French to come ashore again. Sherlock has the instincts he learned while traveling through England to help him guide his patrol.”

“His patrol? You are planning to have Sherlock lead a patrol?”

“Not overtly, at first, but Harry could use some overseeing on her patrols. She respects Sherlock. It will work out well.” Father smiled. “After all, John, if you trust Sherlock enough to give him your heart, I can trust him enough to keep track of your rambunctious younger sister while we guard the shore from invasion.”

“Yes, of course,” John said, not knowing what else to say. Again he had had the chance to be honest. Again he’d hesitated too long.

“Oh,” his father added, as he turned to leave, “your aunt wishes to go into the village today. Do you mind taking her?”

He almost asked why Father wondered, when John drove Auntie into the village so often. Then he guessed his father had thought he might be worried about facing censure from the villagers. John wondered what tales were racing through the village, but did not ask.

“Of course, Father. Let Auntie know I am willing to drive her into the village whenever she wishes.”

“You are a good child, John.” He bit his lip, then added, “And a brave one.”

John said nothing as Father walked out. He might be able to baffle his father with half-truths, but he couldn’t do the same with himself. There was no reason to remain cowering behind the walls of Watson Hall to hide from the lies the Morans might be spreading when he was living a lie himself.

***

Molly was coming out of a shop on the hilly street leading up from the sea just as John opened the door. When she stuttered a greeting, he stepped back out into the sunshine. 

“Is my aunt inside?” he asked.

“No, I think I saw her talking with Mrs. James in the apothecary shop.”

“Mrs. James?” John chuckled in spite of his disquiet at the strain in his bosom-bow’s voice. “I trust she will keep Auntie busy for hours with her list of ailments.”

“Your aunt seemed to be doing most of the talking, for once.” 

John’s smile faded. No doubt, Auntie believed she had more reason to complain today than even Mrs. James. “That is quite a change.”

“Lots of things are changing.” Molly slipped her basket over her arm.

“Lots?” John smiled tightly. “I had not thought one simple marriage could change the entire village.”

Molly sighed. “There are some hateful things being said about you and that peddler you married.”

“That peddler’s name is Sherlock.”

Putting a finger to her lips, Molly slipped her arm through John’s. She led the way back down the hill as she spoke softly. “I know that, but I did not want everyone to know what we spoke of.” 

“What else would we speak of?” John’s laugh was brittle as he noticed the surreptitious glances in their direction as they walked toward the shore. “It’s the same topic I wager everyone else must be speaking of.”

“There’s a difference.” Molly smiled. “I am happy for you and Sherlock. I could see at the wedding celebration that you have much affection for each other.”

“Could you?”

Molly pressed a hand over her heart and sighed. “He was so like the hero in one of the books you have lent me. He jumped to your defense with a fervor that can come only from a loving heart. When the people in the village see that, they will not heed the horrible rumors.”

“What rumors?” John paused at the edge of the pebbly beach. 

“I do not want to repeat them.”

“Then you are most likely the only one.” He patted his friend’s hand.

“When you bring Sherlock to the church picnic at the end of the month, everyone will see that Sebastian’s rumors are simply a result of his jealousy.”

“People will choose to believe what they wish, no matter what any of us do. I truly think Sebastian has come to believe his absurd assumptions.”

“His father told him that he would be marrying you. He simply cannot believe he will not.” She hesitated, then said, “Please do not take this the wrong way, but I suspect Sebastian cannot imagine you would choose a penniless peddler over him, the Alpha son of a baronet who is full of juice.”

“You may take this any way you wish. I would have chosen any man over Sebastian.” John smiled again.

“Even his father?”

He shivered, although the sun was warm. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

“So that rumor is true!”

“Sherlock assures me it is.” He glanced back at the village. “I should go and see if Auntie is ready to leave.”

“Be careful, John.”

“I will.” _More careful than I have been so far._

***

John sat by his bedroom window and watched the fog swirl as if being painted across the downs by a madman’s brush. From below, he heard the clang of the clock in the foyer. It was two hours past midnight. Father had assured him that Sherlock would be home before midnight. When Harry had come home, more than an hour ago, she had told him that Sherlock wanted to check the stables and should be in straightaway. 

Standing, he turned to see Elsa asleep in a chair by the door. He gently shook his maid awake and sent her to bed in the small room on the other side of the dressing room, not wanting to chance Elsa waking to discover Sherlock sleeping on the chaise longue.

John tried to read, but the words blurred in front of his tired eyes. Even his favorite book, which had comforted him during his papa’s illness, offered no respite from the worry.

Going to the window, he unlatched it and swung it open. The damp air surged in, but he paid it no mind as he tried to see through the mist. He strained to hear, but no sound came except the distant motion of the waves upon the shore. He leaned his head against the casement.

Where was Sherlock?

Tears rolled thickly into his eyes as an ache in his chest warned that his fear had clamped around his heart. His heart that longed to belong to Sherlock.

He pushed away from the window. Exhaustion! It must be only exhaustion that teased him with this delusion. He could not have his husband in his heart. He barely knew the man, but, as he thought of Sherlock’s slow, deep kiss before he had left this night, he knew the only one who was deluded was John Watson – John Holmes. That beguiling light had been in Sherlock’s eyes when John had responded whole-heartedly to his kiss.

Hearing a door open downstairs, he rushed to his own door, but it was only one of the servants. He went back and sat on the bed, taking the book with him, Reading would make the time go more quickly and give him an escape from his thoughts.

He hoped.

***

John frowned as he woke to find his blankets wrapped tightly around him. He did not recall when he had fallen asleep, but he had been deep in a dream. In it, he had been with Sherlock. His kisses, bestowed among the dappled shadows by the shore, had sent pulses of delight through him.

Unsure what had wrenched him from his sleep, he sat and rubbed his tired eyes. Seeing a shadow move on the ledge outside his window, he bit back a yell. Who had climbed up here? Only a French fiend would be so desperate. Maybe it was the prisoner who had fled from the village. Or was it a smuggler chased here by the shore patrols?

Leaning across his bed, he stretched a trembling hand out to Sherlock. When his hands found nothing on the chaise longue, his fear deepened. Where was he? From the lack of light, he knew the moon must have set. Sherlock should have been back hours ago.

John wanted to call to him, but could not. Even a whisper might alert the man on the window ledge that he was awake. The window rattle softly, then opened wider. Swallowing another yelp, he strained to find Sherlock. He must be there.

He gripped one corner of Sherlock’s blanket. It was there, but not his husband. In a breathless whisper, he called, “Sherlock? Sherlock, where are you?”

No answer. 

The shadowed man was framed by the window. Slipping from his bed, he inched across the room until he could grasp the poker from next to the banked hearth. It was a poor weapon, but he would not let the French blackguard into his room. His breath plugged his throat. What remained in his chest burned but he did not release it.

The man boldly swung through his window, landing with cat-like quiet on the floor. When he started to walk past him, John pulled the poker back, aiming for the center of his back.

His hand was caught in a vise as he was shoved against the wall. His breath exploded from him, but the sound was muffled against a warm palm. When his fingers became numb, the poker fell onto the bed. He took a deep breath so that he might yell, but choked on it when the poker was held up in front of his face.

John heard a soft laugh. “This is hardly the greeting I expected from my dear mate.”

“Sherlock!”

Rehanging the poker next to the fireplace, he grinned. “I thought you would be asleep at this hour, John.”

“Obviously.” Fear augmented John’s burst of fury as Sherlock released him. “Where have you been?”

“Walking along the shore.”

“Until this late hour?” He paused as he heard the clock clang three times. “Harry was home more than two hours ago.”

“I had a few other places to check, as William had requested.”

“Father told me you would be home by midnight.”

Sherlock smiled. “He clearly knows these downs better than I, for I think I walked halfway to Brighton before I realized I was going in the wrong direction.”

“But why did you sneak in this way? You could have been killed.”

“I wasn’t.” He sat on the chair and tugged off his boots. Stifling a yawn, he shrugged. “I did not want to wake you. Why don’t you go to sleep?”

John sat on the bed, his knees refusing to hold him. “Just like that? I do not expect you to tell me whom you have been with while your mate sleeps, but it seems that a lie would be appropriate at a time like this.”

Standing, Sherlock stretched luxuriously before reaching for the buttons on his shirt. “Jealous, John?”

“No!” John did not want to guess how close Sherlock was to the truth. After dreaming of being in his arms, he had not expected his happiness to come to such a quick and painful end.

Sherlock slid the shirt along the wind-burnished skin of his back which glinted in the moonlight with sweat. When John turned away, overmastered by the sight of such strong Alpha masculinity while his defenses against Sherlock were so fragile, Sherlock pulled on one of the new nightshirts Aunt Hudson had purchased for him.

“It was your decision to make this a marriage of convenience,” he said.

“Convenience?” John gasped. “A marriage of _inconvenience_ , don’t you mean?”

Sherlock gripped John’s shoulders, pulling him to his feet and away from his bed. “My dear husband, I recall that it was for your convenience, or at least the convenience of your reputation, that we wed.”

“Are you going to hold that over me for the rest of our lives?” John tried to squirm away, but Sherlock’s arms tightened around him, holding him close. That he wanted to soften against him and savor Sherlock’s touch vexed him even more. “I have told you more than once that Sebastian was the one who named you as my lover. Maybe you should go and inflict your company on him.”

“As cantankerous as you are being tonight, I might consider it if he was not on his way to London.”

“He’s on his way to London?”

“To find another mate, I suspect.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “I hope you will not be too distressed by that.”

“You are despicable! I should hate you.”

Sherlock bent forward so his mouth was only inches from John’s ear. The pulse of his breath moved John’s hair and sent waves of unadulterated desire cascading over him. Closing his eyes, John delighted in the sensations that should have been perfect, but were wrong. When Sherlock spoke, John swallowed a moan of yearning which would complete the betrayal of the secret he hid in his heart. 

“Sweet John, whose eyes are like brilliant candles burning in the dark, you do not hate me.”

“Mayhap you should go to Town with Sebastian. You could use those flowery phrases to thrill the Omegas.”

“I would rather stay here and thrill you.”

Edging out of Sherlock’s arms, John went to the window and closed it. “I see no sense in continuing to ask why you did not want anyone to know the time when you sneaked back into the Hall tonight.”

Sherlock reached for his pillow and fluffed it. “Be a good Omega and let me sleep.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

John asked himself what he had expected. Sherlock had told him that he was not going to explain why he had come in this way. His shoes were covered with sand, so maybe he had wandered far and gotten lost. That did not seem right. He was a peddler. He should know how to find his way.

As he stepped back toward the bed, his nightshirt tightened around his throat. Turning, he looked at Sherlock who was grinning at him as he held it. His eyes were lost in shadow as he drew John back toward him. 

Bringing John to lean over him, he framed his face as he whispered, “Don’t wonder about me, sweetheart. Just be my bonny John. Be safe in the cocoon of oblivion you’ve spun for yourself. I want to know that you’re safe here when I cannot be with you.”

“Safe?” John’s voice was as low as Sherlock’s. “Is anyone safe now? I feared you were that French prisoner sneaking into the Hall to kill us.”

Sherlock’s smile tightened as did his hands at John’s waist. “That Frenchman has no interest in you. All he wants now is to get back to France, if he’s not already there.” Releasing him, he urged, “Go to sleep.”

John’s fingers lingered on the rough texture of Sherlock’s cheek. “I still do not understand why you are sneaking about.”

“And?”

The impatience in his tired voice aggravated John so, he retorted, “I do not know why you once tried to steal a kiss from me whenever you could, but now…”

Seizing John’s elbows, Sherlock tugged him down next to him. He pinned John’s left hand against the blanket as he lifted the other against his chest. An involuntary gasp of pleasure burst from John’s lips as the unyielding muscles moved beneath his touch.

Fingering the fine hair behind John’s ear, he teased the crescent. As John shivered with the power of his heated breath, he pressed closer.

A matching desire in his voice, he whispered, “My sweet John… my sweet, sweet John.”

John wanted to answer, but sighed as the tip of Sherlock’s tongue outlined his mouth which hungered for his kisses. He wove his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, drawing his mouth over his. Their breaths mingled as Sherlock’s tongue sought to explore every luscious secret in John’s mouth. 

John moaned with regret as Sherlock raised his lips. Opening his eyes, he used a single fingertip to trace the strong line of Sherlock’s nose and uncompromising curve of his lips.

“So soft you are, sweetheart.” Sherlock whispered. “How sweet it would be to hold you with your skin against mine!”

“I _am_ your mate.” John steered Sherlock’s mouth back to his.

Instead of kissing him, Sherlock sat, his back to John. John reached out to touch his back, but halted his fingers when Sherlock said, “I have had a long day, dear mate. Why don’t you go to bed so I can sleep?”

“If that is what you want.” John was not sure what else to say. Maybe he had done something wrong, but how could there be anything wrong about something which was so glorious?

When Sherlock seized his arms again, John gasped as he growled, “Can’t you realize that what we want sometimes is the very thing we cannot have?” He pulled his blanket back over him.

John stood before it could whip out and strike him. He did not bother to speak, for he guessed Sherlock would not answer him. Why should he? He knew the answer as well as he did. What he did not understand was the reason. He feared it had to do with what had kept him out so late and had convinced him to scale that treacherous wall to his window. 

But what could it be? He could not guess.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have this ridiculous habit of overestimating the amount of time I have available to write and post. And I'm lazy. So here it is, finally, a new chapter. Thanks again to [Nymeria578](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Nymeria578/pseuds/Nymeria578). The best beta a gal can ask for. And as always, all mistakes are mine.

Chapter 12

John was silent as Sherlock handed him out of the carriage in front of the Donovan’s home. The grand country estate had been built less than a hundred years before, but had been constructed to look as if had stood on this outcropping overlooking the sea as long as Watson Hall had. Every window was ablaze with lamplight, and other guests were mounting the dozen steps that led to the elegant double doors.

He would rather be anywhere but here at this gathering tonight, however, Greg had told his friends that the whole family would be in attendance. He had considered begging off, saying he did not feel well. That would only create talk that he was with child and start more rumors about why he had wed Sherlock.

John could find no fault in Sherlock’s appearance tonight. Again he wore the well-made clothes he had donned when they were married. With his hair neatly trimmed and curled, he could be a fine gentleman from Town, for now he even had polished shoes to match his other finery.

“Do I pass your inspection, dear husband?” Sherlock asked as he handed John to the ground. “Or must I suffer a lecture for some inadequacy?”

Harry chuckled and jabbed Sherlock in the side. “He can be such a nag.”

“Harriet, watch yourself when you are among the Beau Monde,” Aunt Hudson chided. “Come here and escort your Aunt inside.”

Lord Watson gave them a sympathetic smile before following his aunt and youngest child up the steps. Greg had arrived on his own at least an hour ago.

Sherlock drew John’s hand within his arm. “You did not answer me.”

“You had best accustom yourself to stares,” John said, tugging at his waistcoat as he climbed the stairs with Sherlock. “You shall endure many tonight.”

“We both shall.”

“Yes, we both shall.”

Sherlock’s finger under John’s chin tilted his face toward him. “I know I should tell you that I am sorry, but I will not be dishonest with you when you know how glad I am that we can share this.”

He whirled John into his arms so swiftly that John’s feet caught on the steps and caused him to stumble. Sherlock’s arms kept him from falling as their lips met. As Sherlock’s kiss deepened, demanding that John give himself to his passion, Johns fingers climbed Sherlock’s arms to wrap around his nape. Sherlock pulled him even closer when John’s fingers touched the skin beneath his high collar.

Their breathing was uneven when Sherlock set John’s feet back on the stone riser. John gazed into his eyes, then reached up and brushed a stubborn lock back from his brow. With a smile, Sherlock offered his arm. John put his hand on it as he walked with him the last few steps.

When John glanced behind them and saw no one, Sherlock chuckled. “I did not kiss you to create a public spectacle.”

“I am sorry. I thought – “

“What you are wise to think, but I kissed you because I could not resist, not because I wanted to cause more talk. There should be enough already.”

“More than enough.”

Sherlock laughed again, so freely that heads turned as they entered the Donovan’s foyer.

John handed a footman his hat and cloak, then slipped his hand onto Sherlock’s arm again. He had not been in the home since the new black walnut paneling was added to the staircase that rose to separate in two directions to reach both wings of the house. A parade of portraits of Donovans, both past and present, followed the curve of the banister, but John did not notice them as he saw how many eyes were focused on him and Sherlock.  
His own gaze was caught by Auntie’s. The slightest lift of her chin told John to act as if the stares were not of the least concern. When Sherlock squeezed his fingers gently, he knew he had all the allies he needed.

Holding his hand out to Mr. Donovan, John smiled at the man. Donovan was a quiet man, so John had been surprised when his garrulous sister had persuaded him to have this evening’s rout.

“Good evening, Mr. Wa—Mr. Holmes.” Said Mr. Donovan in a rumbling voice.

“May I introduce my husband, Sherlock Holmes?” John smiled.

Sherlock did the same, though he was sure his expression resembled a grimace. He had met Donovan before, although he had not realized it until now. That bass voice was certainly recognizable, though Sherlock hoped his own was less distinctive having not met the man face to face despite having spoken.

“Good evening, sir,” he said, waiting for Donovan’s reaction. This could be the ruin of everything he had worked for.

“Congratulations on your wedding, Holmes.” Donovan’s smile was broad. “Mr. Watson has been eyed by many Alphas around here, so you should count yourself very lucky.”

“Very lucky, indeed.” Sherlock relaxed his taut shoulders, then realized John’s fingers were digging into his arm. He might be able to hoax the others, but not John. _Blast it!_ Despite Sherlock’s efforts to let John know no more than he must, somehow, John sensed aspects of him that he must not.

As he spoke the proper words to Miss Donovan, he was aware of John’s wary glances at him. He could not know what was wrong, only that something had bothered Sherlock. Now he must make certain John did not discover what.

Guilt pierced Sherlock, startling him anew. He had forgotten about hat emotion in recent months… until John had come into his life and made him feel many things he had not thought he would experience again. Sherlock had not guessed he would be fighting a battle _inside_ himself to keep from telling John every secret he must keep from him and everyone here tonight.

“If you wish to leave, Sherlock…” John began as they entered the grand salon where the evening’s entertainment would be held.

“No, that would cause even more poker-talk.”

John frowned at him, puzzled. Let him think Sherlock was concerned solely with salvaging John’s reputation from the muddle left by Moran’s jealousy. As the other guests swarmed toward them, he responded politely when he was introduced to each one. Sherlock took note of each name and of who stood beside whom, a skill as natural to him as breathing, but said little.

When Sherlock offered to get him something cool to drink before the quartet began to play the first selection, John seemed pleased. His smile faded when Sherlock left John by the chairs as he crossed the vast expanse of the gilt-covered room.

Sherlock was sweating as if he had raced from Dover to Penzance. He had been in other situations that were even more dangerous than this one, so he knew it was not fear that gripped him. It was the unrelenting battle to keep from gathering John up in his arms and throwing away good sense as he put an end to this marriage of convenience by giving free rein to his need for him. Had that longing compelled him to offer for John when he could have found another way to protect him from the younger Moran?

_Idiot!_

The word had rung through his head since the day he foiled Moran’s plans for John, but now he wondered if the jest was on him. He might have been a fool to shackle himself to John, but he was a greater fool to let him sleep alone night after night.

Sherlock glanced at the fruit punch sitting on the table. With a curse, he walked past it. Donovan must keep something stronger elsewhere in the house. If so, Sherlock would find it. Maybe a bottle a wine would erode away this craving. He doubted it, but he intended to find out before he did something truly foolish.

***

John sighed as he offered yet another excuse for his missing mate. Where was Sherlock? He was torn between fury and anxiety. It was not like Sherlock to leave like this. Was it? John almost laughed aloud. He could not guess what Sherlock might do, because he was still almost as much a stranger as on the day they’d met.

Maybe he’d gone outside to escape the glances that followed John as he sought Sherlock throughout the room. Stepping out through a French door, he took a deep breath of the warm air. John’s shoulders ached as he let them sag. He’d not guessed how stiffly he had been holding them.

Going to the edge of the tiny garden, John looked at the high hedge that separated it from the rest of the gardens. He sighed. Sherlock was not here. He had no choice but to go back inside and pretend nothing was amiss. It might be simpler if he knew whether something truly was amiss.

“Good evening, Mr. Holmes.”

John whirled. The snide emphasis on his name could only come from Sir Albert Moran. This was not the enemy he had feared meeting in a moonlit garden, but Sir Albert could be as dangerous to him as the French. As if he had no concerns, John started toward the house. “Good evening.”

“Where is Holmes?”

He wanted to curse Sir Albert’s ability to find his weakest point with such ease. Instead he smiled. “Father has spoken frequently today of how he looked forward to acquainting his new son-in-law with Watson Hall’s neighbors.” When his smile became a scowl, John hoped he had not pushed Moran too far. He should be more careful than he had been with Sebastian. “You can find them inside.”

“Inside?”

John saw the glitter in his eyes. He’d been a widgeon to own that he was alone. He tried to shrug, but his rigid shoulders refused to move. “I came out here to let Greg know Miss Donovan is looking for him.” He lied, for he had no idea where his cousin was. “Father has not wished me to be by myself – “

“Since you anticipated your vows with Holmes?”

“– since the attack by the smugglers,” he continued in a taut voice.

“Is that so?” Sir Albert crushed flowers as he stepped toward John. Laughing at John’s dismay, he said, “I wish to speak to you now, John.”

John motioned toward the house, hoping he could convince Moran to leave the garden before he destroyed all of Miss Donovan’s flowers. “Why don’t we -?” 

“Why don’t we what?” He grasped John’s arm. When Sir Albert’s other hand inched along John’s shoulder toward his collar, his smile broadened. “Where is that warmth you offered to Holmes instead of my son?”

John laughed, so Moran could not suspect the depths of his distaste. Then, Sir Albert would press his attack. “You should not listen to the lies spread about the village.”

“Lies? You owned to taking Holmes as your lover.”

“Sebastian devised that lie.” Batting aside Moran’s hand, John stepped away from him. “He and you are the only ones who believe that ridiculous out-and-outer. My family and my husband and everyone else know the truth.”

As Sir Albert laughed, his arm encircled John’s waist. “We can prove to everyone that my son was not lying.”

“Prove?” John tried to back away.

“That you truly prefer a Moran to a penniless peddler.” He gripped John’s chin, pushing his face back so his mouth was beneath his.

With a shout, John struggled to break free. It was as useless as trying to move Watson Hall. The man was massive! Turning his face away, he evaded Moran’s mouth. Sir Albert dug his fingers into John as he forced his lips back toward his.

John lashed out with a fist. When Sir Albert reeled back, a shorter form stepped out of the shadows. He clenched his fist against his lips to silence another shout as he saw another fist whip forward. Sir Albert collapsed to the ground.

In disbelief, John watched Harry walk toward him, shaking her fist. He ran and threw his arms around her, then stepped back. “Did he hurt you?” He asked.

“I was about to ask the same of you.”

“I am fine.”

“As am I.” She grinned. “Better than fine. _Mon Dieu_ , I have been itching to do that since he was so nasty to Father when you and Sherlock were married.”

“Watch what you say!”

“About your wedding?”

“No, the French. You might be mistaken for the escaped prisoner.”

She laughed. “Then I shall endeavor to speak only German oaths from now on.” Rubbing her knuckles, she asked in a more somber tone, “What were you doing out here with Sir Albert? You should know better John!”

“I came out here alone. I was looking for Sherlock, and I know how he enjoys the fresh air.” He took her arm, tugging her away from where Sir Albert was shifting groggily. “You cannot tell anyone about this.”

“If you did nothing amiss – “

“I did not, but I fear what Sherlock or Father might do if they were to hear about this.”

“Give Sir Albert another taste of his own cruelty, I suspect.”

He lowered his voice so no one might hear it but Harry. “Did Sir Albert see that it was you who hit him?”

“I don’t know. I was not sure it was him until just before my fist found his chin.” She grimaced. “He has a dashed hard chin. Maybe if his head were not so blasted hard, he would not be so bacon-brained and would accept that you and Sherlock are married forever and ever.”

John could not hide his flinch at Harry’s words. To be honest and reveal that Sherlock planned to annul their marriage would add more oil upon the already fierce fire simmering behind barely polite smiles.

“Then say nothing of this to anyone.” He urged. “No one.”

“But, John, if others knew how Sir Albert treated you – “

“And how you treated him, we would both be hailed.” John smiled sadly. “You are a hero, Harry, and I appreciate it more than you can know, but I do not want Sherlock hurt in avenging me.”

“I floored Sir Albert with ease. Sherlock should be able to – “

“You surprised him. He is no fool. He will not be surprised again.” He tightened his hold on her arm. “Please, heed me on this, Harry. For once, both of us must think something through clear to the conclusion before we make a decision that could have horrible results.”

Slowly she nodded. “All right.”

“Thank you,” he whispered. 

“It shan’t be easy.” She glanced over her shoulder as they walked to the door. “I would like to regale everyone with this tale.”

“Maybe you are growing up more than I had guessed.”

“Mayhap I am, and maybe you’ll remember that when I speak to you next about joining the army.”

John shook his head. “I cannot change my opinion on that, because I am looking forward to getting to know the Alpha you’ll be, Harriet Watson. I hope I have many years to find that out.” He did not add as they entered the room that tonight made him more certain than ever that Harry should not buy a commission or enlist. Her determination to be a hero could lead her to death. The last thing he wanted in his family was a well-decorated hero whose last medal was given posthumously.

***

The echo of his father’s laughter followed John up the stairs. He and Sherlock had spent some time on the short journey from the Donovan’s debating how their host had managed such sensationally good luck at cards that night.

He had not gone to look Sherlock in the card room off a back passage, away from where the more sedate entertainments were being held. The Alphas played for high stakes, and he had not suspected that Sherlock would be able to afford to play in such company.

Shrugging off his coat, he entered the bedchamber that was no longer a comfortable retreat, for Sherlock had invaded every aspect of it – his dressing room, his favorite chair, his small collection of treasured books. Every aspect, save for his bed.

“You are oddly quiet.” Sherlock said as he followed him into the room and shut the door.

“I have nothing of import to say.”

“Not of the musical choices tonight?”

“Why speak of them when you were not there to hear them?”

“I thought the chance to sit at the board of green cloth with your father and his neighbors was an opportunity I should take advantage of.”

“Take advantage of? Is that your only reason for joining them?”

“Do you think I was trying to avoid you?”

“No.”

“Do you think I was trying to avoid the gossip?

“Maybe.”

Sherlock smiled as he drew off his coat and loosened the neatly tied cravat at his collar. As he tossed it onto the table, he again resembled the peddler who had first greeted John with a roguish smile.

“You are right, John. I had no interest in recounting the details of our courtship, for I was not sure what tale you were spinning for your friends.” He folded his arms on the high back of a chair. “And I would be want-witted not to take advantage of meeting the elite of this area.” Sherlock’s smile vanished so quickly, John blinked as he added, “And I would be want-witted not to know of the incident in the garden.”

“In the garden?”

“When your sister gave Sir Albert a facer.”

John’s hands clenched beneath the coat draped over his arms. “Harry vowed to say nothing of that.”

“She didn’t, but she couldn’t hide the pride in her every step. When I chanced to see Sir Albert come in from the garden and take his leave with unparalleled speed, I guessed the two events might be connected.” 

His smile was cold. “So, you allowed me to confirm it by tricking me.”

“’Twas no trick, simply a good guess.” Sherlock came around the chair. “What I cannot guess is why your sister felt compelled to darken Sir Albert’s daylights.”

“It is over. Harry and I agreed not to discuss it.”

“Sir Albert is determined not to let your wedding vows halt him from his plans to seduce you, is he?” He laughed without humor. “And why should he be bothered by your wedding vows with me when he would not have been bothered by the vows you would have spoken with his son?”

John turned away. “Sherlock, it is over. I do not want to discuss it.”

He folded the coat over the back of a chair and reached for the nightshirt on the bed. When Sherlock’s broad hands covered his, John longed to lean his head back against his chest as his arms enveloped him. Sherlock drew his hand back and lifted it to his lips. John melted back against him as Sherlock teased his fingers with the tip of his tongue. A moan fled his lips when Sherlock traced the center of his palm with fiery kisses.

Whirling, John found the welcome he longed for on Sherlock’s lips and in his arms. As his arms arched up his back, he smiled when Sherlock raised his mouth and looked down at him.

“This is very nice,” John whispered.

“Yes, very.” He traced John’s lips with his tongue. When he sighed with eager surrender, Sherlock added, “Much better than arguing over why you don’t want to tell about that madman’s attack on you.”

John pulled away. “Attack? Sherlock, you are making something out of – “

Sherlock spun John to stand in front of his cheval glass. Tugging at his right sleeve, he pointed to where the seam had split. “Something out of nothing? I think you are trying to make nothing out of something, John. The only question is why?”

He ran his fingers along John’s cheek, then down his neck. When they brushed the curve of John’s throat where it met his collar, John’s hand rose to his. Not to push his questing fingers away, but to keep them against him.

“Because,” he whispered, “I did not want you to get hurt by that beast.”

“John, I can take care of myself.”

“I know, but I do not want you to hurt because of me.” He closed his eyes as Sherlock’s fingers played across the buttons at his throat. “Because I love you.”

Sherlock snatched his hands back as if John had struck him. Turning him to face him, he gasped, “Are you out of your mind?”

“Yes, maybe I am, but I know for sure you are in my heart.”

“You sweet, naïve fool.”

When Sherlock walked away from him to peer out the window, John bit his lip. So many things he wanted to say, so much he wanted to ask. If he let even a single word past his lips, he would not be able to halt all of it from spilling out. He had already said too much, but he did not regret being honest. The truth had gnawed at him for too long. 

“You know,” Sherlock continued, “that this marriage is only temporary.”

“I know.”

“So, you should know better than to tell me that you love me.”

“You make it sound so simple.”

“It has to be.” Sherlock swung the window open. Maybe the remnants of the day’s heat would ease the chill that had settled on him. He could not delay saying what he must any longer. John’s heartfelt declaration made this even more difficult to do. “I must be gone for a few days,” he said as he looked up at the stars. 

“Gone?”

“Yes, I told you there were some other deliveries I had promised to make.” He sat on the sill and saw that John was sitting, too, but on the bed. If he went to him and pressed him back into that wide mattress… No, he must not.

“Will you be returning?”

His simple question drove a shaft into Sherlock’s heart, and he fought to pay no attention to the pain. He must not heed that organ which could betray him far too easily when he gazed into John’s colorless face. It would beseech him to ease his fears by telling him the truth… all of it. The truth of how, each night, he had leaned back on that chaise longue, which was a foot too short for him, and listened to John try to sleep. Even when John had found escape from the need tangling them together in a snare neither could flee, Sherlock had not been so fortunate. Then he had been taunted by the soft sounds of John’s breathing while Sherlock imagined his breath coming quick and uneven as he swept him into his arms and held him in bed.

“Sherlock?”

How long had he been lost in his thoughts of making John his? He was finding it more and more difficult to push aside those fantasies that he could make come true if he went to John now.

Standing before he could let his own thoughts seduce him, he clasped his hands behind him. Only then, when he was sure he could keep his fingers from reaching out to touch him, did he say, “Of course, I shall be returning. What sort of man do you think I am that I would abandon you?”

“I don’t know what sort of man you are, Sherlock.” John came to his feet slowly.

He silenced his groan as John stepped toward him. Moving back to keep the distance between them the same, he heard laughter. Not from John, but from his own thoughts when he considered how his tie-mates would be amused by his resistance to this sweet pleasure. He was acting like a young omega just out of the schoolroom, afraid of the very idea of the devastating power of the desire in John’s breathless words.

“You don’t know me, yet you say that you love me?” Sherlock asked. “That makes no sense, John.”

“Nothing makes sense any longer. Nothing has made any sense since you came into my life.” John’s voice softened to a husky whisper. “Nothing but being in love with you. Sherlock, I have tried to turn aside this longing in my heart, but it will not heed me. My heart is yours. Mayhap it is senseless, but I do love you.”

John put his hands on his arms. Sherlock shook them away. When he stared him with anguish in his eyes, he struggled not to succumb to the fierce longing to sooth John’s despair and to ease his own craving for him. To stand too close to John and to be aware of him with every inch of him was an exquisite torment.

“I will see you before week’s end, John,” he murmured as he walked toward the door. 

“Sherlock?”

“What?” he asked without turning.

Entreaty filled John’s voice. “I thought you were going to kiss me before you left. I mean…”

Sherlock’s face hardened as he seized John’s shoulders. Staring into his shocked eyes, he demanded, “What do you expect of me? I was not lying when I told young Moran that your appealing charms are urging me to madness. If I hold you and kiss you, my dear husband, I doubt I could be halted with just that.”

“And if you were not?”

He stared at John in disbelief. His hands slipped up from his shoulders to cup his face. If Sherlock had chanced upon him even a year ago, he would not have hesitated to accept this invitation, but he was not the same man he had been a year ago. Too much had happened to change him.

He released John and walked out the door. He did not look back as he closed it. If he did, he might never leave.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well now. What do we have here? Another chapter? Since you've all been so patient with me, I give you two in one day. See what I did there? 
> 
> [Nymeria578](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Nymeria578/pseuds/Nymeria578) actually had this chapter ready for me a month and a half ago. I'm just unbelievably slow. Mistakes are mine, but nothing else is.

Chapter 13

John tossed a pebble into the stream. His hope that a walk across the summer leas and into the woods would ease his aching heart had come to naught. As when he had tried to ease his frustrations over Harry entering the army, he found no comfort.

Picking up another pebble, he threw it into the water. The splash sent a ring flowing outward, but it disappeared into the rippling stream as if it had never existed. 

He pushed himself to his feet. A hint of hysterical laughter tickled the back of his throat. After he had dressed Harry down for not thinking before she acted, he had blurted out the truth of his love for Sherlock. He should have paused to remember what Sherlock had told him the night of their wedding. He had married John solely to give him the protection of his name. Nothing else.

Tears weighed heavily in his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. Sherlock had been gone for over a week. Maybe he would be waiting for John when he returned to Watson Hall. He must not let his hopes rise wildly, for he wondered how many more blows his heart could endure.

Dampness struck his face. Not from his tears, but from the gray skies.

Glancing upward, John muttered, _“Mon – Ach du Lieber Himmel!”_ He smiled, then grimaced as more rain fell.

Suddenly, the rain came down as if a wave had erupted up out of the sea. His hair clung to his forehead as it was drenched. Lightning flashed. When thunder sounded only seconds later, he flinched.

Mr. Anderson’s house was not far away. He would seek shelter there. Tugging his collar upward, he dashed through the trees. 

The stone house was almost invisible, as gray as the sky. A broken plow was set next to a ragged stump. Two buckets, one of them missing slats, waited next to the well that was edged with moss. He ran to the front door as a double bolt of lightning lit up the sky. 

He pounded on the wood; then, when he got no answer, he peeked through the window. Was someone moving in there?

Pushing his soaked hair out of his eyes, he hurried around to the back of the house. He would not stand in the rain while waiting for Mr. Anderson to shake off his blue ruin fog. He would wait out the storm in his barn.

John faltered when he saw some motion through the storm. Was someone else seeking shelter in the barn? At least, it would give him someone to commiserate with while he waited for the storm to pass so he could go back to Watson Hall and change into dry clothes.

The hoot of an owl sounded near him. Had it been confused by the dark clouds into thinking night was coming? He’d never heard of such a thing. A burst of fear threatened to smother him. Could it be a signal? From whom? To whom?

His ragged breath was loud as a shout in his ears as he turned to flee. Suddenly, as if bursting from the depths of his most horrid nightmare, two forms appeared. 

French soldiers!

He stared, as he backed away in one slow step, at the green and black pantaloons visible beneath the heavy greatcoats. When one man pulled a pistol from beneath his coat, John saw the flash of chevrons on the green sleeve of his uniform.

The officer smiled, the dark eyes above his gaunt cheeks narrowing. John stiffened his back knowing how useless his cries for mercy would be. Even if he shouted, he could not depend on Mr. Anderson to come to his aid. The other man’s fingers opened and closed on his gun as if he were trying to decide what order to give. 

He dared another step backward – bumped into something hard. His arms were grasped and jerked behind him. Pulling against the strong grip, he looked over his shoulder to see another French soldier. John shouted. 

“Silence him!” ordered the man with the gun. He spoke French brazenly.

A hand closed on his throat. 

“Do not slay him.” The officer muttered something under his breath, then added, “Just keep him quiet. You heard the captain’s orders.”

John did not say anything because he wanted to let them think he was unable to comprehend their language. That way, they might reveal something that could lead to their capture… if he escaped alive.

The Frenchman with the gun came toward him with such stealth that his passage barely moved the undergrowth. Now John understood how he and his comrades had been able to sneak so close to the village. He started to lean away from the man as he put his hand out but John’s head struck his captor's broad chest. 

A slow smile spread across the soldier’s full lips. Catching John’s chin in his palm, he forced his head up. Horror burned through him as he saw the obvious lust in his gaze as it slipped over him.

He wanted to snarl that he would prefer either of the Moran’s to a French pig, but he must remain silent.

“Do you live here, _monsieur?”_ the soldier asked with a heavy accent.

John shook his head.

“Then you must have been spying on us,” he announced as if he were judge and jury and executioner.

John shook his head in fervent denial.

“You wish me to believe you just happened to be walking through the rain?” the man continued. With a laugh, he switched to French, “Bring him to the captain.”

Fear slashed John as he was pushed toward the barn. He spun about to flee but saw a gun in front of his face. He walked toward the barn. Maybe if they thought he was browbeaten, he might find an opportunity to escape.

He swiped at his wet hair as he stepped into the gloomy barn. Odors of animals and rotten hay fouled the air, but John paid that no mind as he stared at the five men crouched in the center of the floor. When they did not look up, he saw they had a sheet of paper on the floor between them.

A map? Sweet heavens, they were planning an invasion. Fear clamped around John as he realized they could not let him go. He could describe each of these men, save for their leader who had his back to him, to his father.

The captain, who wore a cloak tossed back over one shoulder to reveal his epaulets, spoke so lowly that his whisper was lost beneath the drips of water coming through the thin thatch of the roof. His men nodded, so intent on his words that they had not looked up.

John sensed his captor’s impatience. More than once, he cleared his throat, but the captain waved him to silence. He could not doubt that the matter he was discussing was of the most vital importance.

He closed his eyes and whispered a silent prayer. A soft sob escaped his tight lips at the thought of never seeing Sherlock’s face once more, of never again knowing the pleasure of his touch. How ironic that the answer he had sought during his walk was being provided this way! He was glad he had not delayed in telling Sherlock that he loved him.

The soldier jerked him away from the door and he gasped as he stepped into a puddle. 

“Be silent, _monsieur_ ,” he growled at John.

 _“Monsieur?”_ came the captain’s low voice. As he stood and faced them, he continued in French, “Who the hell have – “ 

“Sherlock!” John choked out. Disbelief twisted through him. Above the green uniform with its garish epaulets was the face he had seen so close to his when Sherlock kissed him. “No, Sherlock! Not you!”

Tersely, Sherlock ordered, “Release him!”

The soldier cursed and pushed John away from him. John simply stared. As if in the midst of an appalling dream, he took a step toward Sherlock, who was dressed in a French officer’s uniform. Looking from one face to the next, he saw the Frenchmen were as shocked as he was.

“Do you know this Omega, Captain Huillet?” asked the man who had captured him, “He must be a spy.”

“I am not a spy!” John cried in French. He refused to be killed without knowing the truth. All of it must be revealed now. He must know why Sherlock was wearing this hated uniform.

Grasping his arm, the sergeant whirled him against a stall. He held his pistol up against John’s chin. “Be silent, Englishman.”

“Sergeant LaVelle, put that gun away!”

As the gun lowered, John looked past the sergeant. _That man could not be Sherlock!_

The captain motioned for him to come closer. Continuing to stare at him, John tried to force his feet to move.

“Release him, Sergeant!” he ordered.

“I am not holding him, sir.” LaVelle gave him a sharp shove forward. “Go, Omega! Captain Huillet wants to talk to you. Find your tongue, for he shall have no patience with your muteness.”

“Sergeant, cease your threats,” the captain said, his accent even more free of an accent than John’s. “He is frightened almost to death.”

When he took John’s hands, John moaned. The ripple of rapture sweeping along his skin told him that his eyes had not been deceived. This Alpha who wore the elegant French lancer’s uniform was Sherlock Holmes, his husband, the man who held John’s heart. He could not mistake Sherlock’s beguiling touch for any other’s, for his fingers knew the warmth of Sherlock’s.

“Sherlock?” he whispered. “Why are you wearing this uniform?”

He had no chance to answer.

One of the men squatting by what was unmistakably a map asked, “How does this Omega know you, sir?”

Sherlock raised John’s left hand and pressed his lips to the gold band on his finger. “He is my husband.”

“Husband?” choked out Sergeant LaVelle. “Why is your husband here in England?”

“Because I am English,” John fired back.

“Hush,” Sherlock murmured. “Do not make this worse.”

Although he was unsure as to how it could be made worse, John nodded.

“Captain Huillet, you have an English husband?” Sergeant LaVelle asked; then he laughed as his gaze raked John again. “But what Alpha is interested in politics when he has an Omega as fair as this one?”

“Enough, LaVelle,” Sherlock ordered, his gaze not leaving John’s. “Join the other men.”

The sergeant hesitated. When Sherlock repeated the order in a sharper voice, the man stomped over to the others. They bent their heads together, staring at the map before them, but John knew the topic of conversation was their captain’s unexpected Omega.

_Captain!_

Awareness of betrayal swept through him, bitter as bile and hot as flame. Sherlock had lied about being a traveling peddler. How readily he had duped them! He closed his eyes in agony. If Sherlock had been as false about everything, his kisses might have been feigned. He had used their marriage to inveigle his way into John’s father’s favor to gain information on the patrols and betray them.

When his hand brushed John’s arm, he drew back in dismay. He did not want to delight in a traitor’s caress. “Don’t touch me!”

“John, you must let me explain,” he said quietly. 

“Explain? How can you when I see you with _them?”_

“Believe me when I tell you that I never meant for you to find out about this. If – “

“If I had been a good Omega, never questioning why you married me and why I love you when you hid so much from me, you would never have needed to reveal any of this. You could have gone on betraying my father and his friends” – his voice broke as he added – “and me.”

“It is not as it appears.”

John’s eyes widened as he fought the sharply edged laugh in his throat. “Not as it appears? _Mon Dieu!”_ He shuddered at his own poor choice of words. “Good heavens, _Captain Huillet,_ how can it be anything but what I see before my eyes? You are a French lancer, a captain!”

“And I am your husband.”

“Do not remind me of what shall be my eternal shame!”

Sherlock caught John’s shoulders and brought him up against his chest. His kiss cajoled John into forgetting everything but the delight of Sherlock’s mouth on his own. When John’s fingers rose, he pulled them back with a moan when they brushed the gold braid of Sherlock’s epaulets.

Pushing himself out of his arms, John wrapped his own around his waist. His perfidious body urged him to return to Sherlock’s embrace, to forget everything but the pleasure they could share. To surrender to it would mean turning his back on everything else he loved, everything he believed. 

Sherlock coursed his fingers along John’s shoulders. When he bent to whisper, his breath swirled around John’s ear, feverish and tempting. “Whether you believe it or not, I shall never betray _you.”_

John faced him, astonished that Sherlock still spoke French. “Why should I believe that?” He kept his chin high, so the tears flooding his eyes could not overflow.

“You wouldn’t believe anything I told you, would you?”

“Why should I?”

“Because you love me, John.”

“I love Sherlock Holmes, the man who risked his life to protect me, the man who – “

“The man who delights in touching you.” His finger trailed along John’s cheek to the corner of his mouth. “The man who aches for your lips.” Across his chin, his finger slipped down to graze the somewhat less than starched soaked collar at John’s throat. “The man who cannot sleep when he is alone because he wishes to sleep with you in his arms.”

John edged back, then faltered when rain struck him. He was not at the door so it must be coming through the roof. “Please do not say such things.”

“Why not? It is the truth.”

“The truth? Do you even know what that is? Our whole life is a lie. Have you enjoyed your game with my heart, Captain Huillet?”

“Call me Sherlock.”

“Why? Isn’t your name Captain Sherlock Huillet?”

“John, I am telling you the truth.”

“I don’t know if I can ever believe – “

His arm surged around John, pulling him up into his hateful uniform again as Sherlock whispered, “That I love you?”

“No,” John moaned. “Don’t tell me that now.”

“Because you no longer love me?”

“Because I hate what you are in this uniform.”

His hands framed John’s face as they had the night Sherlock left him alone. Only now did he know Sherlock had left Watson Hall to plot its invasion. “I would have done almost anything to keep you from learning about this until a time when the truth would not be painful for you .”

“When did you think that would be? When the French Army washes ashore in the village?”

“John, you must think upon what you are saying. If – “

“No!” He shoved Sherlock’s hands away. Backing toward the barn door, he whirled into the storm as Sherlock reached for him.

John heard shouts behind him as he raced through the trees. Overhead, thunder chased streaks of lightning. He did not slow as he ran out onto the road and saw a carriage coming toward him. Waving it down, he glanced back over his shoulder. The soldiers were not far behind. 

“Mr. Watson?” came a quavering voice from inside he carriage.

“Mrs. James!” He did not wait for an invitation to climb into the vehicle. Even Mrs. James’ endless litany of ailments seemed welcome today. 

As the carriage turned toward Watson Hall, John glanced back toward the woods. The shadows were as empty as his heart. 

Everything was so clear in retrospect. Peddling was a perfect profession for a spy. Sherlock could wander into each village, appraise its defenses in case of an invasion, and learn the names of the village leaders while sharing what he pretended was news from beyond the town. 

But he was not a peddler. He was a French captain, sworn to conquer England for that dirty Corsican and to destroy everyone who tried to stop him, including John’s family and friends… and his very own husband.

He relaxed back against the seat and shut his eyes. He wished he knew what would happen now. How could he explain Sherlock’s absence to his father and family when Sherlock did not return to Watson Hall? Unlike his husband, John was not skilled at lying, but he guessed he soon would be unless he wanted to watch him hanged as a spy.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just when I think things are stabilizing, RL bites me in the ass. Hard. So, after yet another interminable wait, I have finally brought you another chapter. For having the patience of a saint, the award once again goes to [Nymeria578](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Nymeria578/pseuds/Nymeria578). Any remaining mistakes are thoroughly my own. If you catch any, please feel free to let me know.

“My goodness, child. What happened to you?”

John wondered if everything was going to go wrong today. He had hoped to sneak into Watson Hall unseen, but as Aunt Hudson walked toward him, he knew that was now impossible.

“I got caught out in the storm, Auntie.” He plucked at his damp clothes. “I should go and change.”

“An excellent idea.” Her nose wrinkled. “You’re leaving puddles in your wake.”

He said nothing as Aunt Hudson walked with him up the stairs to his bedchamber. John should have guessed from the tilt of her chin that Auntie would not be satisfied with asking a single question.

She sat on the chaise lounge while Elsa handed John a towel and helped him change. Although he had expected Aunt Hudson to fire a barrage of questions at him, the older woman was silent. She tapped her fingers on the cushions of the chaise lounge until Elsa gathered up John’s drenched clothing to take to be laundered.

John sat in the chair by the window as he toweled his hair dry. He couldn’t keep from glancing out into the steady rain. What a witless air-dreamer he was! He could not halt his heart from beseeching his gaze to seek the drive to discover if Sherlock was coming through the gate. He would not be returning to Watson Hall. 

_Ever._

Why bother when it would mean his certain death should anyone else discover the truth of Sherlock’s true allegiance. As well, he had no guarantees that John himself would not turn him in.

“John?”

He looked at his aunt. 

“Did you decide what to do about you and Sherlock?”

“About me and Sherlock?” Good heavens, could Auntie know the truth? So little that happened around the village failed to reach Auntie, but this… “What do you mean?”

Aunt Hudson smiled. “I know you have been troubled by your marriage, although I do not know why for this match is one that should be pleasing to both of you.”

“It should be.”

“So did you decide what to do?”

Rising, John set his towel on the corner of the vanity and reached for a comb to straighten the mess of hair on his head. “Yes, I have decided.”

“Yet you sound so sad.”

“It has not been a pleasurable afternoon.” John did not have to fake a shiver. “It was frightening to be out in the storm.”

“So you sought shelter in a barn?” When John gaped at her, his aunt held up a piece of straw. “Don’t look at me as if I’ve read your mind, child. This fell off your trousers.”

He took the straw and tossed it onto the windowsill. “I was not far from Mr. Anderson’s house when the storm started. He was not home, so I considered seeking shelter in his barn. I swear there was as much water coming through the roof as through the trees.”

“So you headed for home?”

“Delivered here safely, thanks to Mrs. James.”

That was the wrong thing to say, he realized when her eyes narrowed. “I thought you vowed not to speak to Mrs. James after she aimed her demure hits at you whenever she had the chance at the Donovan’s musicale.”

“I thought listening to her insults about my lack of virtue were less intolerable than being struck by lightning.” John wished he could ease his aunt’s concern, for he had forgotten until now Mrs. James behavior at the gathering. Sir Albert’s even more outrageous actions had pushed it completely out of his head. He could not say that because the truth would distress Aunt Hudson more.

Auntie chuckled. “I have to say I would have made much the same choice myself, although Mrs. James should recall her manners.” Without a pause, she added. “When do you anticipate Sherlock returning here?”

“I am not sure when.”

“Or if?”

John stiffened his shoulders so the shudder rising along his spine would not be visible. “Auntie, how can you ask such a question?”

“Because everyone else is, although they are too polite to speak of it to you.”

“He had some business to complete. I told you that.”

“Any deliveries he had promised to make he could have had one of the servants tend to,” Aunt Hudson raised a single finger. “Do not try to hoax me with out-and-outers, child, by telling me that Sherlock is unaccustomed to making requests of the servants. You know as well as I that he has not always been a peddler.”

“I suspect you are right.”

“I _know_ I am right.” She rose, putting a hand on her right hip. When John stepped forward to help her, Auntie waved him away. “It’s just the weather, child. The dampness gnaws at my old bones just as curiosity gnaws at my mind. As it does yours.”

“You are wrong, Auntie. I am not curious about where Sherlock is.”

Instead of the frown John expected, his aunt chuckled. “Good. Mayhap you are coming to trust that fine young man you married instead of acting as if he had abandoned you.”

Trust? John almost laughed, too. He must have given some answer, because she kissed him lightly on the cheek, told him to come down for tea in a few minutes, and left.

John sat on the chaise longue and looked at the pillow that was propped there. With a groan, he pressed his face against it and wept.

*** 

John hoped he had washed away all the dredges of tears from his face. As he came down the stairs, he was glad that the house seemed empty. He didn’t even meet a servant as the distant rumble of thunder heralded another storm about to descend upon Watson Hall.

Going into the small parlor, he was surprised that no one else was there. He glanced at the clock on the mantel and realized he was half an hour early for tea. In his determination to be certain no one noticed that he had been crying, he had misread the clock outside his room.

He went to the window and stared at the blackening clouds stitched with white needles of lightning. This storm looked even more ferocious than the earlier one. He hoped Sherlock had better shelter than Mr. Anderson’s leaky barn.

“Stay safe,” he whispered. “And far away from here.”

“John?”

He whirled from the window and stared at Greg who stood in the doorway. Even though the day’s heat was close and stifling, he wore a dark brown coat and a correctly tied cravat.

“You startled me,” John said.

“I am sorry about that. I am glad, however, that you are alone.”

He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at Greg’s relief. Yes, John was alone. Completely alone.

“Can I get some advice from you?” Greg asked as he drew the pocket doors closed.

“Of course, although I am not sure how valuable my advice is at the moment.” John sat on the settee. When thunder thudded against the house like a cannon, he shivered. He hoped he would never hear the sounds of real cannon fire aimed at these walls.

“Your advice has always been good in the past.” Greg grimaced as he sat across from John in the chair Aunt Hudson usually chose. “Better than mine it would appear.” He looked over his shoulder. “Harry told me what happened at the Donovan’s party.”

“Auntie is upset about Mrs. James – “

“Not about that old tough. About Sir Albert.”

John scowled. “She wasn’t supposed to tell anyone.”

“Did you really believe our little sister could keep such a coup quiet?”

When Greg smiled, John gasped, “But I thought you had changed your mind about the Morans. I thought you liked them.”

“Sebastian, yes, and I had hoped I had been mistaken about Sir Albert’s ways. It seems I was not.” He sighed. “His darker side bursts out of control too often. It is too bad too, because he is not an evil man."

John arched his brows, but said, “Sir Albert is not whom you wish to discuss.”

“No.”

“Is it Miss Donovan?”

“No.” 

“No?” John sat straighter. “Then whom?”

“Miss Hooper.”

“Molly?” His voice cracked.

Greg rubbed his hands together between his knees. “I did not handle that situation well, I am afraid.”

“On the contrary, Molly seems to understand why you no longer call and bears you no resentment.”

His shoulders sagged. “She is a generous soul to be so forgiving.”

“She cares for you, and she would forgive you almost anything.”

“She cares that much for me?”

“Yes.” John looked away. Molly could forgive Greg for stopping his visits to the parsonage, but how would he forgive Sherlock? He wanted to forgive him. He could have forgiven him almost anything… except being false with him as he had.

“I look forward to speaking with Miss Hooper at the church gathering.” Greg hesitated, then asked, “Will you help me speak with her there?”

John smiled and took Greg’s hands in his. “Of course. I would be very happy to. But what of Miss Donovan?”

“Others have assumed that she has more affection for me than she does.”

“So you will not be calling there as often?”

Greg shook his head as he stood. “Her brother and I remain the closest of tie-mates. That will not change.”

“That is good.”

“It is.” Greg bent and took John’s hands. “Now tell me what is amiss with you. Are you still worried about the French prisoner?”

“French prisoner? I have given him no thought lately.”

“Mr. Jensen said ‘tis a waste of time to be searching for him.”

“Why does he say that?”

“Said the man must be halfway to Vienna by now.” He grinned. “Actually he said, if he were the escaped prisoner, he would be halfway to Vienna now.”

“I hope he is gone. It will make it much more comfortable for everyone at the church outing.”

“Do you think Sherlock will be back for that?”

“I am not certain when he will return.”

“And that is what is bothering you?”

“I miss my husband.”

He sat on the settee beside John. “I know that, but I saw you come down the stairs. You looked as if you were trying to hide from the world.”

“I wanted a chance to be alone for a while.”

“And I intruded?”

“No, you did not intrude. I’m glad you came to speak with me, especially about this,” Talking about Greg’s concern for Molly had given John a moment’s respite from thinking of how and when he should reveal to his family that Sherlock would not be returning.

“John, are you quickening?”

“A baby?” The idea of surrendering to mirthless laughter teased him. There could not be a child when Sherlock had never shared his bed and would not now. “No, I am not pregnant.”

“Then what else is wrong?” Greg penned him in place with his anxious gaze. 

“Nothing!” At John’s sharp answer, Greg stared at him, so he tempered his voice. “It is something I must attend to myself.”

“With Sherlock?” His cousin’s insight seldom failed him, and it had not now.

“To own the truth,” John said, although he was not doing so, “Sherlock and I quarreled before he left to make these deliveries. I will be glad when we can resolve it.” Maybe it wasn’t a lie because he truly wished it could be so.

“I am certain you will find your differences matter little when you are together again.”

Although he wanted to tell Greg how desperately he hoped he could be right, he said, “I had no idea you were an expert on marital matters.”

Greg grinned at John, “I shall get married one day. If I want to be prepared, I have to keep my eyes open now to learn from the mistakes of others.”

“I hope you can learn something from me.”

With a smile, Greg walked out of the room.

John whispered, “And I hope I can learn something from you.”

He stood and walked down the hall to his father’s book room. The door was closed, so he knocked and waited for a reply. Even if he was meeting with the village council, John would ask for a few minutes to speak with him. Greg had come to him for advice because he respected his experience. He needed to speak with his father for the same reason. He was not sure how he would tell his father of his problem without divulging the truth about Sherlock’s duplicity, but he needed his calm assurance that he was not alone.

“Come in,” Father called.

John opened the door and peeked in, “Father, I must speak with you.”

“Of course.” Father stood and motioned for him to enter. “I suspected you would be here as soon as you heard.”

His heart skipped a beat, sending pain throbbing through him. “Heard?” he whispered. Maybe he was not the only one to stumble upon the French patrol in Mr. Anderson’s barn.

“That I was home.” From the stormy shadows by the window, Sherlock stepped out to smile at him  
John mouthed his name as he stared at Sherlock. He was dressed in the casual clothes he had worn when John first saw him. He wondered where his uniform was, then recalled the secret compartment in Sherlock’s wagon. No wonder he had been so determined that John would get no more than a quick glance at its contents.

“Forgive me for waylaying him on his way to let you know he was home,” Father said with a taut smile. “I wanted to hear what news he had gathered while traveling along the shore.”

“I’m sure he has learned many interesting things.” John did not try to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “Have you shared _all_ you learned with Father?”

“Not yet.” Sherlock crossed the room. Taking John’s hands, he bent toward him as if to kiss him. “Have you?” he murmured.

His kiss was swift but John sensed the hunger in it. Or maybe it was no more than his own treacherous longing for Sherlock.

“Did you think I would?” John whispered when Sherlock pressed his cheek to his.

“If I had, I would not have been want-witted enough to return here.” Sherlock murmured against his ear.

Quivering beneath the seductive power of Sherlock’s breath stroking him, John drew back. He could not scold Sherlock for such an arrogant assumption when it was the truth. He wanted to curse his heart which had leaped at the sound of Sherlock’s voice.

Without that horrible, green uniform, his ebony hair shone, even in the dim light, against the high collar of his shirt. Sherlock smiled, and John wanted to smile back, to have the afternoon be nothing but a nightmare brought on by the storm.

John turned to walk past him. Sherlock still was what he was – a French spy who might already have sent the message that would initiate the invasion of the village. If John allowed him to resume his life here, Sherlock would continue to use him and the others John loved to gain information for his heinous allies.

His father intruded, saving him from blurting out the words which did not want to lie still. “Come in, John, and tell me what you wish to say. I suspect your husband is eager to tell you about his adventures along the road.”

“It can wait, Father.”

“I thought it might.” He gave John an indulgent smile as Sherlock took his hand and drew it within his arm. “We can speak more later, Sherlock.”

John faltered at the obvious trust in his father’s voice. He should tell him, but John was caught by Sherlock’s gaze and knew he could not speak the words that would damn him. He might hate the soldier Sherlock was, but he loved the man who’d saved him from a horrible life with the Morans.

As soon as Sherlock closed the bedroom door behind them, John said, “You should not have come back here.”

“Hush.” Sherlock went to the dressing room door and peered in to be certain Elsa or one of the other servants was not there. Closing and locking that door as well, he came back to John. His hands settled on John’s shoulders, not stroking, not urging him to the madness of their love, but offering him solace. “I cannot leave.”

“Why? You need more information to sell us out to your evil master?”

“John, forget that!”

“Forget it? How – ?”

Sherlock’s arms surrounded John as he silenced him with a kiss. Drawing him close, he refused to let him free himself. John fought the deluding snares of passion but found he needed their love to erase the fear. He held tightly to Sherlock, wanting the forgetfulness which came at the apex of ecstasy.

Abruptly, he whispered, “No.” John pushed himself away. “Don’t pervert the one thing I thought this war could never touch.”

Sherlock’s voice rasped with desire as he whispered, “My sweet John, I am afire with yearning for you. I’m not attempting to seduce you from your loyalties, just into my arms.”

“No, Sherlock, I – “ He faltered when Sherlock caught John to him and pressed his lips to his neck. It took all his strength to turn his face when Sherlock bent to capture his lips in the sweet prison of passion. “Not like this.”

“Not like this?” Sherlock repeated in bafflement.

Stepping away, John winced as he backed into a chair. “Why are you doing this? You are not French, although you speak as if you are.”

“As do you.” A swift smile raced across his lips. “Your father has given you an excellent education, John. Did he teach you other languages, too?”

“We all speak German and can read Greek and Latin.”

“I’m impressed.”

“As am I,” John replied with the same sarcasm he had used before. “Did you receive a classical education as well while you were learning to be a peddler?”

“I learned to speak French and English from my mother who was half-English.” Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back and sat on the windowsill. “I learned to be a peddler when I escaped from the prison where I was a prisoner of war.”

John choked. “A prisoner of war? Here in England?”

“Not exactly, for the prison hulks float offshore.” His gaze turned inward. “You cannot guess what a man will do for a chance to see the sun upon his face again. When I managed to get free, I took to this life upon the road, wanting to get my surfeit of sunshine. In the year since, I have struggled to get the odors of death and sickness out of my senses. I want to be able to close my eyes and not see the ragged remains of men who are only half alive, for they have lost all hope of escape from that torture.” His hand cupped John’s cheek. “I pray you will never understand what it is like, my heart.”

John faltered, wanting to despise Sherlock, but also longing to draw his head down against his chest as he whispered to him that the nightmare was over. “I had no idea.”

“I know you guessed I was hiding my past from you. That is part of what I have hidden.”

“The rest is that you are spying for the French.” John could not allow his love for Sherlock to persuade him to forgive him.

“My nation was pleased when I managed to get back with the help of some smugglers who ply the waters between England and France. My connections with them made me even more valuable to my government.” Sherlock smiled. “I was offered a promotion and this opportunity to help bring the war to a quicker end.”

Standing, John folded his arms in front of himself. “I want you to leave.”

“Why?”

“Sherlock, if you are caught, you will not be sent back to prison. You will be hanged. If you are here when you are arrested, my father, sister, and cousin could be hanged, too.” Tears glistened in his eyes as he whispered, “Go, before they hang you.”

“But, sweetheart, no one knows but you.” When John flinched and would have turned away, Sherlock caught him by the shoulders. “I know you will not betray me.”

“I should!”

“You won’t.”

John nodded with a sigh. “You are right. I will not tell anyone the truth because I want to keep you alive. I love you.”

“You should know that you were right this afternoon when you said I had intended to abandon you here.” Sherlock said softly.

Looking away, John tried to force back the tears which threatened when he whispered, “No, Sherlock, do not tell me the truth now. Let me believe the lie that you cared for me.”

Sherlock captured John’s face between his hands and brought it up so he might look into it. His lips touched John’s forehead fleetingly, but could not ease the deep ruts of heartache creasing his brow. Tasting his icy cheeks, he said, “ ‘Tis the truth that, while I honestly married you to save you from those dastardly Morans, our marriage allows me to stay here without creating questions I could not answer. When I learned I must stay here a while longer, I could think of no better way than by being your husband.”

“You could have broken the brake on your wagon again.”

“I could have.”

“Instead you chose to break my heart? You are nothing but a – “

“A French bastard. I know. You have called me that more than once today.”

“I have not!”

“If not aloud, at least in your mind.” Sherlock’s arm around John’s waist kept him from pulling away. “Listen to me!”

“No! I have heard all I wish to hear from you, Captain Huill – “

He silenced John with a kiss. Sherlock lifted his head only enough so he could murmur, “I thought I had it figured out so well. I would marry you to save you from the Morans; then I would leave. I would have arranged for word to be sent back to you that I had been killed in some sort of accident, and you would have been free to go on with your life.”

“You would have left me to mourn, you mean.”

“You were not supposed to fall in love with me, John.” Sherlock sighed. “Nor I with you. When that happened, I knew I was caught in my own trap. The charade was becoming real. Since our marriage, I woke every night I was in this room and watched you sleeping all alone in your bed.”

“You woke to go to meet with your fellow spies!”

He nodded, “Yes, I did.”

“And to let the prisoner escape?”

“That was managed while you were enjoying the beating of the bounds. Harry thought I was walking with you while I went into the village to oversee that. I was on my way back when I chanced to see you going into the woods.”

John closed his eyes and sighed. “So you could learn where Mr. Anderson’s buildings were.”

“I shall not be dishonest with you, sweetheart. You did point me to a possible rendezvous spot, and I did wake up, night after night, to meet with my men and their allies, the smugglers. But, night after night, I delayed a few minutes longer in going to a meeting because I was caught up in the splendor of the moonlight illuminating your face as you slept. I ached to remain here with you, to wake you up with my kisses, to make you my mate in truth. Yet to seduce you and leave you was too cruel even for me, so I knew I must keep to my original plan to arrange an annulment.”

“You are not cruel, Sherlock. You are…” A reluctant smile swept aside John’s fury, mellowing it to the familiar irritation when Sherlock’s warmth urged him to forgive once again. “You are infuriating!”

“I am an Alpha involved heart-deep with an Omega and with a cause. I cannot have both and I cannot decide between them.” He threaded his fingers through Johns blonde hair. “I know I cannot leave you here unprotected.”

“Sebastian and Sir Albert – “

“Are only two of your enemies.” Sherlock took a deep breath and released it through tight lips. “You need to realize, John, that the night I arrived here, the smugglers came here to teach your father a lesson about interfering with their work.”

“Father?” John gasped. “He is in danger?”

When he was about to push past him, Sherlock sat John on the chaise longue. “I have warned him.”

“How?”

“One does not need to be involved in espionage to hear such rumors.” He gave John a wry smile. “I can now tell you on my first night here I thought my men had come to speak with me, and you interrupted them by my wagon.”

“But they were the smugglers.”

“Yes. It shocked me when I confronted my men about their stupidity in coming here and I learned they had obeyed orders to stay away from any of the houses along the shore. I guess you were quite the hero in keeping the smugglers from their mischief.”

“Do you know if they plan another attempt against Father?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Not for sure, but I have ordered my men to alert me to anything they might learn. What they haven’t been able to discover is who is giving the smugglers these orders. I have urged caution because I do not want to lose the alliance with the smugglers.”

Coming to his feet, John said, “ You must leave, Sherlock, before you play a part in destroying my family.”

“John, I won’t leave you to your enemies’ lack of mercy.”

“You are my enemy.”

Sherlock stood and started to speak. Then he closed his mouth. Nodding, he said, “Very well, John. I can see the sense in your suggestion. Give me until the end of the week to make up a good excuse that will not endanger you or your family. Then I will leave.”

John nodded. For if he spoke, he would beg Sherlock to stay.

Lifting John’s hand to his lips, Sherlock kissed each finger. John leaned his head on Sherlock’s chest as he had longed to do and listened to the uneven beat of his heart. This was not easy for either of them. He’d wanted Sherlock to be honest with him, but John could not be completely honest with Sherlock now. He did not want him to go.

“I wish this could be different,” John whispered.

“As do I. You have no idea how much I regret that we have had to meet as enemies.”

“When you leave this time… will you come back?”

“If I can, my heart.”

He flung his arms around Sherlock, knowing how lonely it would be. John could not betray Sherlock. No matter what, he would keep his secret hidden in his heart next to his unending love for him. When Sherlock slanted his mouth across his, John tried not to think what that vow might cost him.

**Author's Note:**

> Check for tag changes as we go along.
> 
> To give credit where credit is due, this story is based on a romance novel by Jo Ann Ferguson.
> 
> I'm on Tumblr as [Getagurney](http://getagurney.tumblr.com/)


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